

Class 

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Jack Chumleigh ^ 
at Boarding-School. 


BY 


Maurice Francis 



Author of “ Jasper Thorne “ The Leopard of Lancianusf 
“ In a Brazilian Forest etc. y etc. 



>)) 

PHILADELPHIA : 

H. L. KlLNER & C0. f 

PUBLISHERS, 


V f € 

' GST 26189? 



Copyright, 1899, by H. L. Kilner & Co. 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 



first cor*. 

Ua-99 


TO 

THE REV. DR. D. E. HUDSON, C. S. C., 

AND THE OTHER BOYS WHO LEARNED TO LIKE 

JACK CHUMLEIGH, 

IN THE A VE MARIA. 


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CONTENTS. 

CHAP. PAGE 

I. The Day Before 7 

II. A Terrible Scare 22 

III. The Last Straw 37 

IV. The Lilies 48 

V. Guy and His Best Friend 57 

VI. A Talk 66 

VII. The Departure 75 

VIII. They Arrive 86 

IX. Prophecies 96 

X. The School 105 

XI. A Surprise 116 

XII. The Poet and the Pugilist 126 

XIII. Before the Examination 135 

XIV. The Examination 145 

XV. The Fight 155 

XVI. The Plot Thickens 165 

XVII. Jack’s Second 175 

XVIII. Guy’s News 184 

XIX. A Way Out 193 

XX. The Boxes 203 

XXI. A Dialogue 213 

XXII. Steve Osborne 223 

XXIII. Miley’s Revenge 231 

XXIV. A Lesson 241 

XXV. The Box 251 

XXVI. The River Bank 261 

XXVII. The End 273 


5 



■ 


.. 





Jack Chumleigh at Boarding- 
School. 


I. 

THE DAY BEFORE. 

The boys, Jack Chumleigh, his brother, 
Thomas Jefferson, his cousin, Baby Maguire, and 
their friend, Bob Bently, were about to go away 
to school. The thought of it was not altogether 
pleasant, although, under the direction of Miss 
McBride, who had been their teacher for several 
years, their path had not been entirely strewn 
with popcorn and peanuts. Still, boys like new 
places, and, at the end of vacation, they found 
their sadness tempered by hope. 

Still, the best of the year seemed over. Water- 
melons were ripe, great white lilies, heavy with 
perfume were blooming in the yards, and the 
grapes in the Chumleigh yard were growing a 
rich purple. Baseball games were going on in all 
the lots, and boys were talking of football ; — the 
very thought of school made the boys sick. But 
a new school would be better than the old. And 
at times Faky Dillon felt positively joyful at the 
prospect. At such times he burst into song : 

(?) 


8 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


“A new school for me, 

Where we shall be free, 

With lessons an hour a day ; — 

No Latin to speak of. 

No Grammar to squeak of, 

And little to do but to play.” 

Bob Bently shook his head ; “You can’t keep 
up my spirits with rot like that,” he said. “ We’d 
better face the worst.” 

Little did they dream of what was in store for 
them. 

Jack Chumleigh had grown almost an inch 
taller during vacation ; Faky Dillon did not seem 
to have changed very much ; Thomas Jefferson 
had become so stout that the buttons of his 
jacket dragged the buttonholes. There was a 
manlier look about Bob Bently ; Baby Maguire 
looked very much like himself; — in fact, the 
boys had grown more inside than outside. They 
had learned many new things ; but the world to 
them was a place in which all unpleasant things 
were to be avoided, and education a puzzling 
process for forcing them to remember nearly 
everything they would rather forget. 

On this Thursday in September they had paid 
their farewell visit to Miss McBride. She had 
been very kind to them, and had presented each 
of them with her carte de visite — a small oblong 
photograph, in which she appeared in a black 
silk gown distended by hoops, her hair smoothed 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


9 


clown from her brow, a large watch-chain dan- 
gling from her waist, her right hand resting on 
a figured tablecloth, her left grasping a large 
vase of flowers, and a sweet smile on her face. 
She had also given good advice to them. 

“Be solicitous to show yourselves worthy of 
the school over which I have presided for so 
many years ; and never put your hands in your 
pockets.” 

All the boys, with the exception of Thomas 
Jefferson, simultaneously showed their hands. 

“ A graceful deportment when in society will 
much assist in your success in life. One of my 
pupils is now first-mate of a large schooner 
which plies between Wilmington and Philadel- 
phia. He is an ornament to the navy. Do you 
think,” she said, fixing her eyes on Thomas Jef- 
ferson, who had thrust into his breeches pocket a 
small bottle full of water and a tadpole, and who 
was compelled to keep the bottle upright, — “ do 
you think that you will ever arrive to eminence 
in any pursuit by keeping your hands in your 
pockets ? ” 

Thomas Jefferson blushed painfully. To take 
his hand off that bottle — which, unhappily, was 
uncorked — would be to lose a tadpole for which 
he had swopped a Calcutta stamp. If he had 
been sure that tadpoles could live without 
water, he would not have minded a partial 
bath ; as it was, he was divided between Miss 


10 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


McBride’s stern gaze and the fear of losing the 
tadpole. 

“ I hope, Master Thomas Jefferson Chumleigh,” 
she went on, “ that you look on the politeness of 
your friends rather as an object of envy than of 
scorn. I have long observed your sullen dispo- 
sition, and regretted it. An old pupil of mine, 
Jonathan McSweeney, has lately been nominated 
for Congress ; and you need never hope to attain 
this dignity if you keep your hands in your 
pockets.” 

This was too much for Thomas Jefferson. He 
drew his hand from the bottle : it sank on its 
side, and he felt a cool stream of water trickling 
down his right leg. He imagined, too, that he 
felt the tadpole wriggling in its death throes ; 
but he held his hand in full view. 

Miss McBride allowed herself to smile. She 
shook hands with each of the boys, gave them 
her photographs wrapped in tissue-paper, and 
hoped that they would call frequently when they 
came home. 

“ Do not forget,” she said, as they were leav- 
ing the doorstep, “ among the trials and tri- 
umphs, the thorns and roses of scholastic life, 
that my school, humble as it is, was really your 

alma mater” 

Faky Dillon was quite touched. Fine lan- 
guage always had a great effect upon him. Tears 
came to his eyes. 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


11 


“I always liked Miss McBride,” said Jack. 
“ It makes me homesick to think of going to a 
strange school.” 

Bob Bently sighed. 

“ There was always something homelike about 
that school. You knew what to expect. We’ve 
got used to one kind of grown people ; it is 
rather hard to have to meet a new set. You 
knew pretty surely what Miss McBride would do 
next, but you can never tell what new teachers 
are up to. And men are crankier than women.” 

“I tell you, Thomas Jefferson,” said Faky 
Dillon, hotly, “ if you go on disgracing us some- 
thing will drop, — that’s all. Why couldn’t you 
keep your hands out of your pockets while Miss 
McBride was making her speech?” 

“ I Avasn’t going to have my tadpole killed,” 
said Thomas Jefferson, drawing the half-filled 
bottle from his pocket. “ It’s all right ! Skinny 
McMullen caught it down in the Neck, and I 
gave him one of my Indian stamps for it. I 
don’t see why Miss McBride need have been so 
cross. If she had been more polite, I might have 
given her the tadpole. Skinny’s got a lot of 
cat-tails, too, he wants to swop for stamps.” 

“ You never will have sense,” said Faky Dil- 
lon. “ I believe you Avould interrupt George 
Washington’s farewell address if you could, 
Thomas Jefferson. If you had not been so silly 
with your old tadpole, I’d have thought of some- 


12 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


thing to say. Yon just bothered me so that 
when Miss McBride gave me her picture and 
said, ‘ I hope you are glad to get this little sowe- 
neer of your teacher,’ I said, ‘ Oh, not at all !’ I 
feel like going back to tell her I didn’t mean it.” 

“¥e haven’t time,” said Baby Maguire; “the 
watermelon may be at home. You know Miley 
Galligan promised to send us a watermelon by 
express. He said we’d have it to-day, anyway.” 

“That’s true,” said Bob Bently, losing his 
gloom. “He said he’d show us what Fulton 
Market could do in the way of watermelons. 
Let’s hurry home.” 

The boys invaded the Bently house first. The 
melon was not there. It occurred to them that 
it would be great fun to creep along on the shed 
and the roof of the summer kitchen, and thus 
enter the Chumleigh house. It was easy to do ; 
and long experience had taught them that the 
less attention they attracted to their movements, 
the better it would be for them. Making their 
way through the window, over the roof that 
covered Susan and Bebecca, they carefully sought 
for the expected watermelon. At last Jack found 
it near the refrigerator in the cellar. It had ar- 
rived during their absence. It was a monster, 
and carefully cut into its rind were the initials 
“ M.G.” in the middle of a five-pointed star. The 
boys stole down to look at it. On a tag tied to 
its beautiful dark-green rind was the address to 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


13 


“Mr. J. Chumleigh.” Jack concluded that it 
would be well to put it on the ice for a while 
hot melons were not to his taste. With some 
difficulty the gift was hoisted into the refriger- 
ator. A few other things were displaced in the 
process, and a plate or two already embedded in 
the ice broke ; but the melon was at last ar- 
ranged in its resting-place. 

This done, our friends went up to Jack’s room. 
It was not so splendid as it had been. The base- 
ball bats and masks, the football suit, and a pair 
of rapiers were visible on the wall ; but the 
drapery and other pretty things sent by Uncle 
Ferrier had gone over to beautify little Guy’s 
new room. The room was neat ; Jack, especially 
since he had been able to add some adornments 
to it, and to consider it his own personal property, 
had taken great pride in keeping it so. 

The boys distributed themselves on the chairs 
and the bed, and their unusual quietness brought 
thoughts of the terrible to-morrow to them. 

“ It is awful to think that this is the last time 
I shall be here until Christmas,” Bob said. “ I 
do wonder what Professor Grigg’s school will be 
like. After all, Miss McBride wasn’t bad. She 
doesn’t understand boys, that’s all ; but she 
might have been worse.” 

“ Professor Grigg is a man like ourselves,” said 
Faky. “He’ll know what good interference 
means, and he won’t talk at you all the time. 


14 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


With Miss McBride, it was ‘ Do this ! ’ or ‘ Do 
that ! ’ every minute. I don’t say boys are natur- 
ally good,” he added ; “ I don’t say they like 
work ; but grown-ups can’t expect them to be 
good if they don’t believe there is any goodness 
in boys. The trouble with Miss McBride was 
that when she was in a good humor she thought 
we were all good ; but when she was cross, we 
were too bad to live.” 

“I don’t know,” said Thomas Jefferson. 
“ Some groAvn-up people seem to forget that they 
were ever boys ; or they must have been very 
bad boys in their time, if they judge us by what 
they were.” 

There was silence. Baby uttered a long sigh. 
The prospect of exile in an unknown land made 
his heart sink. 

“It’s your fault, Baby!” Thomas Jefferson 
burst out. “ If you hadn’t been so bad, they’d 
never have thought of sending us away. I was 
passing the dining-room the other night, and I 
heard father say, 4 They’re better at home ; or 
if they must go away, send them to Georgetown 
or Notre Dame, or some other big Catholic 
school.’ And then mother said : 4 No : Baby 
might meet a class of boys who would not under- 
stand him. He is a peculiar child. I prefer Pro- 
fessor Grigg’s for him, because he is a sensitive 
boy. And, of course, his parents would think it 
strange if we separated the children.’ — ‘Keep 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


15 


them at home, or send them to one of the great 
schools,’ said father. — 4 I couldn’t be happy if I 
thought Baby was among men, and without a 
woman’s care,’ mother said. 4 You have often 
told me about your college life, and sometimes I 
shudder when you tell me of your awful games. 
If Baby went to one of the big schools, I don’t 
think that the prefects would see that he had his 
nerve-drops three times a day, or warm his bed 
— as his mother insists shall be done — with a hot 
iron every cold night ; and he must have so many 
little attentions.’ — ‘I don’t remember,’ father 
said, 4 that Brother Jovian ever warmed my bed, 
but I do remember — ’ Father stopped short and 
asked me what I wanted ; but I heard enough to 
know that we’ve got to go to a girly-girly school 
just because Baby is mean.” 

44 Maybe he can’t help it,” said Faky Dillon ; 
44 but we know all about his nerves, and grown- 
up people are very strange not to see that he has 
just been spoiled. I don’t care whether Professor 
Grigg’s school is girly-girly or not, but I don’t 
want to leave home, — that’s all. It makes me 
sick to think of it. We’ve all been good for two 
weeks. Mother said the other day that I was too 
good to live. Now, suppose we go and tell all our 
fathers and mothers that we will be just as good 
all the time. I’m sure they might let us stay 
home until next year.” 

44 The worst of it is,” said Bob Bently, whit- 


16 


JACK CHUMLEICfH. 


tling at a piece of wood which he was rapidly 
turning into the keel of a yacht, “ that you’re 
not sure when you are good. Now, often when 
I’ve been really bad — and I used to be awful 
before I went to confession, — nobody seemed to 
mind. But now I sometimes do a thing without 
thinking that it is bad, and everybody just 
pounces on me. Grown people don’t seem to 
mind the big things ; but you suddenly do some- 
thing that doesn’t seem much — and you are 
gone ! ” 

Baby Maguire screwed up his face, as if he 
were about to utter a piercing howl. 

“ What are you all jumping on me for ? ” he de- 
manded. “I don’t want to go to boarding- 
school. And a boy can’t help having nerves, can 
he?” 

The boys looked sternly at Baby. 

“ It wouldn’t be so bad if you could take the 
‘extras’ at these boarding-schools. If I could 
learn only instrumental music and take vocal les- 
sons and a few nice things, I think I’d get on,” 
said Baby, encouraged by the boys’ silence. “ All 
the pleasant things are charged extra.” 

“They don’t put algebra down as an extra: 
they make you take thatf said Jack, sadly. 
“ And ancient history is not an extra. I hoped 
it might be ; for then father might not let me 
take it, as he says times are hard. I say, Baby,” 
Jack broke forth in sudden wrath, “ you ought to 


THE DAY BEFORE. IT 

be ashamed of yourself! Father would never 
have thought of school if it wasn’t for you.” 

Baby wrinkled his face. 

“ I feel the nerves coming on,” he said ; “ and 
I must not be bothered.” 

“ We’ll nerve you,” exclaimed Bob, “ if you go 
on that way ! We’ll bother you ! ” 

Baby retired to a corner of the room, a picture 
of injured innocence. Faky Dillon went to the 
table and began to write with a very thick pen- 
cil. Jack and Bob sat disconsolately by the win- 
dow ; and Thomas Jefferson, unable to endure 
the sadness, volunteered to go down into the cel- 
lar to examine the watermelon. 

“Well,” said Jack, “we’ve got to do our best. 
I’ve learned one thing so far — that you must 
stand and endure things. It is like being in the 
sea at Atlantic City when you’re a little fellow. 
A wave comes and fills your eyes and ears with 
water. Y ou think that everybody ought to know 
how you feel and help you, but nobody does. 
You have to stand up against the next wave as 
best you can. A fellow must feel that he is 
right, and fight it out. Father doesn’t think I’m 
much of a boy, but I am going to show him. 
What I’ve gone through has taught me a good 
many things, Bob ; and one of these is that God 
will see you out of every scrape, if you only do 
your part. Of course, if you lie and sneak, you 
can’t expect any help.” 


1.8 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ That’s true,” said Bob. “ Little Guy did me 
a great deal of good. We’ll go to see him to- 
morrow morning. Our train,” he added, with a 
deep sigh, “ doesn’t start until 5:30 in the even- 
ing.” 

“ It will seem years till Christmas,” said Jack, 
with another sigh. “ I suppose we’ll have to bow 
and scrape to Mrs. Grigg, and toe the mark to 
the professor, and not be able to move without a 
tag on us. The catalogue says that 4 deportment ’ 
is regularly attended to. All sorts of frills, I 
suppose. I wish we were going to one of the 
big schools you read about, — to a big college. I 
don’t believe they’ll let us play Rugby at Colon- 
nade House, as they call this school. It will just 
suit Baby, — all coddling and sissy business.” 

Faky raised his head in triumph. 

“ I have found it at last ! ” he said. “ Here it 

is. It’s my cheef-dever , I think.” And he read : 

“ Oh, tell the truth quite frankly, — 

Oh, tell the truth, my boys ! 

You may suffer for a moment, 

But long will be your joys.” 

u I don’t think much of it,” said Bob, in a low- 
spirited tone. “ It’s true, but there’s no snap 
in it.” 

“ You don’t know a good thing when you see 

it, ” retorted Faky. “ A poet can’t always be 
making a lively moke of himself to please people. 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


19 


It took me a long time to find that rhyme, I can 
tell you. Here’s a light thing that may suit you : 

“ If Professor M. Grigg 
Cuts up a pig. 

And gives us the head and the feet, 

We’ll cry out aloud : 

‘We’re not at all proud, 

But we want something else for to eat.’ ” 

“No, it won’t do,” said Bob, yawning. “We 
want a new poet, with some snap in him — hello ! 
What’s that ? ” 

Something heavy had fallen against the door, 
and the voice of Thomas Jefferson was heard 
calling for help. Bob threw open the door, and 
Thomas and the watermelon fell inward. There 
was a dull, heavy sound, followed by a splash. 
For a moment it was hard to tell which was 
Thomas and which was the melon. 

Then he arose, panting. 

“ I ought not to have tried to carry it upstairs, 
but I just wanted to show you fellows what I 
could do.” 

“ And you’ve done it ! ” said Bob. “ That wa- 
termelon is smashed in half.” 

“We can eat it,” said Baby, gouging out a 
handful of the crimson fruit. “ It is spoiled,” he 
said. “ Too ripe.” 

The boys gathered in sadness about the wreck. 
They heard Susan and Rebecca talking in the 
kitchen. 


20 


JACK CHUMLEIGTI. 


“ Oh, I say,” said Faky Dillon, “let’s drop the 
halves on the kitchen roof ; they will make an 
awful bang.” 

“Flo,” said Bob. “We’ve got to be good. 
We’ve had nothing against us for a long time 
now ” 

“ But this is only fun,” Faky said, impatiently. 
“ Susan and Kebecca will think the world has 
come to an end, and then we’ll tell them.” 

Faky seized half the huge melon and dashed it 
out the window. 

The commotion in the kitchen following the 
thud and splash charmed them all so much that 
Jack and Bob, with broad grins, let the other 
half of the melon fall on the wooden roof. The 
boys watched, unobserved, the flight of Susan 
and Bebecca. Jack and Bob looked at each 
other with despair in their eyes. 

“We’re in for it again,” said Jack, sadly. “I 
wish we hadn’t done it. I do believe they’ve 
gone for a policeman. I wish I had thought.” 

Faky burst into uncontrollable laughter. 

“ How Susan ran ! Baby and I had better get 
out on the roof and throw away the deebriss .” 

Faky Dillon and Baby and Thomas Jefferson 
assented to this, and long before the ambulance 
had arrived all traces of the fractured watermelon 
had disappeared. 

As the sound of the ambulance reached them, 
they rushed to the window. 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


21 


“I think I’d better go home,” faltered Faky 
Dillon. 

“No,” answered Bob. “There are Mr. and 
Mrs. Chumleigh below. Let us face the music !” 

The sad-eyed band slowly descended, to meet 
them on the front steps. 


22 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


II. 

A TERRIBLE SCARE. 

“ Nobody knows how I feel,” Susan said, sol- 
emnly,— u nobody ! ” She took a flatiron from 
the rack in the kitchen and ran her fingers across 
it. “ Sad to the sad ! ” she added ; while Rebecca, 
the young colored girl from Baltimore, gazed at 
her in awe. “ In the old country some people 
call these irons sadirons.” 

“ Law sakes ! ” said Rebecca. “ Ain’t that ig- 
norant ! ” And Rebecca showed her teeth cheer- 
fully. 

“ It’s not ignorant,” said Susan, with dignity. 
“ The people in the old country knew what they 
were talking about before you were born. And 
when I took down the iron it was a coincidence. 
’Tis well it’s called a sadiron in the old country.” 

“ I didn’t mean ignorant,” said Rebecca, open- 
ing the oven door to see that the pan of apple- 
dumplings was “ doing well.” “ I meant mighty 
queer.” 

Susan shook her head, with a sigh. 

“ Education is lost on the likes of you,” she 
said. “ I wish the cook was here to understand 
my feelings. ‘ Be careful of the apple-dumplings,’ 


A TERRIBLE SCARE. 


23 


were the last words she said ; 4 and see that there’s 
plenty of nutmeg in the sauce, for so ’ — Susan’s 
voice faltered, — 4 for so he liked them.’ ” 

44 Law sakes ! ” repeated Rebecca, opening her 
eyes wide and looking at Susan, who was slowly 
drawing a lump of white wax over the surface of 
the flatiron. “ Law sakes, you talk so sorrowful 
you make me feel like crying, — shuah ! ” 

It was plain that Susan was not altogether dis- 
pleased by this sympathy. 

“Many’s a time this kitchen was different,” 
said Susan, slowly. “There’s been doin’s here 
worthy of the Dark Ages, when Malachi wore 
the collar of gold he won from the proud in- 
vader.” 

“ Law sakes ! ” exclaimed Rebecca, looking 
around. “ Spooks ! ” 

“ Is it the seventh daughter of a seventh son 
you’re talking to ? Spooks ! Is it spooks I’d be 
thinkin’ of, and me with a banshee in the family 
that I am that intimate with ! Be careful of the 
dumplings, Rebecca. Sure they’re the last dump- 
lings that he will eat under this roof; for I 
dreamed of a wedding last night. Be careful of 
them, Rebecca ; for cook’s heart’s in every one of 
them, and them were her last words ! 4 Let 

everything be done decent and in order,’ she said, 
as I said good-bye at the door.” 

Rebecca had recen tly entered Mrs. Chumleigh’s 
service, — or, rather the service of Susan and the 


24 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


cook. The cook’s rheumatism had made her suf- 
fer extremely in September, and Rebecca had 
been sent by Mrs. Chumleigh’s cousin in Balti- 
more to assist in the heavier work in the kitchen. 
The cook had gone out on this Thursday to pay 
her monthly visit to little Guy, who now lived 
with Uncle Mike and his wife far up town. 

“ If I had spilt the salt this morning, or there 
had been a dog howling last night, I couldn’t feel 
worse,” she said. “ Ah ! it’s the likes of you that 
have a good time, with no thought at all, at all. 
But when I think of what’s gone before, — when 
I think of what I’ve gone through, and what I’ve 
been used to, Rebecca, it’s hard.” 

Ro sound, except Susan’s sigh and the soft 
sound of the flatiron gliding over the linen on 
the board, broke the silence. Rebecca, who loved 
to have her feelings “ torn up,” forgot the apple- 
dumplings and stared at her superior officer. 

“ ’Twas in this very kitchen one of the grand- 
est parties of the season took place in honor of 
one of my cousins from the maythropolis and the 
cook’s Uncle Mike. ’Twas grand.” 

“ Did you have a cake walk ? ” asked Rebecca, 
showing her teeth. 

“ A cake walk ! Is it insulting me you are ? 
It’s little you know about the ways of society. 
But how could you — the likes of you f ” 

“Well, I’ve lived in the best Ma’yland fam- 
ilies,” replied Rebecca, indignantly. “ There 


A TERRIBLE SCARE. 


25 


ain’t no families like the East’n Sho’ families, 
shuah ! ” 

“ We’ll change the subject; for I might lose 
my temper before I’ve said my last penance,” said 
Susan. “ I can point you out where they all sat. 
There was my cousin Miley, — and he was a little 
seraphim, smiling, and with his hair greased beau- 
tifully. And they were all here — then.” 

Rebecca, who was uncertain whether anybody 
was dead or not, tried to look sad. She had 
made so many mistakes since she had entered into 
the sacred domain of the Chumleigh kitchen that 
she was generally in a dazed state of mind, but 
always ready to agree with anything that might 
be said. She had a great fear of Susan’s super- 
natural gifts as the seventh daughter of a seventh 
son, and it is to be feared that Susan had discov- 
ered this. Rebecca would have been glad to 
know what dreadful thing had happened or was 
about to happen, but she was afraid to ask ; for 
Susan had a way of making her explanations as 
hazy as possible. 

“ It’s education that’s done it,” said Susan ; 
“ and if only them that could take it had educa- 
tion, ’twould be better for the world. If educa- 
tion were only like vaccination, and would take 
to them that need it and let other people alone, 
’twould be the better for us all. Well, it’s Miss 
McBride’s fault. She’s the teacher of the angel 
boys, Rebecca; and she’s one that education 


26 


JACK CIIUMLE1GH. 


should never have taken to. I knew her when 
she lived in a little street and hadn’t a Sunday 
bonnet.” 

“ Law sakes ! ” murmured Rebecca. 

“ She’s gone and taught the dear children all 
about Soprates and Julian Caesar and Themistock- 
ings, so that their papa and mamma have to send 
them away to get ’em right again. And it’s just 
breaking the hearts of me and cook to see them 
go. And, though I do say it, it’s never a cross 
feeling or an angry word they’ve had from me or 
cook. ’Tis been like a bit of paradise with the 
boys around. To think of Baby Maguire — and 
him used to so much — going to boarding-school ! 
Well I mind the day he was sick. If he was my 
own flesh and blood I couldn’t have been kinder 
to him. And Bob Bently is to go too ; he’s the 
neighbor boy, and a better boy never lived. 
4 Susan,’ said the cook as she went out — and these 
were her last words, — 4 see that there’s a big Dutch 
cake made for Bob Bently ’s box, if I forget it.’ 
Ah ! cook’s been a mother to him, — that she has. 
And Faky Dillon, as they call him, — if there was 
ever a little saint on earth, that’s him! The 
poetry just gushes out of him ; he’s what they 
call a jaynus. 4 Susan,’ the cook said as she tied 
her bonnet strings — and these were her last 
words — I seem to hear them in my ears yet, — 
4 Susan, make the jumbles for Faky Dillon sweet. 
Maybe he’ll never eat another jumble,’ she said ; 


A TERRIBLE SCARE. 


27 


‘ for in life we’re in the midst of death, and rail- 
road trains are uncertain.’ ” 

“ Mighty me ! ” said Rebecca, shuddering. “ I 
hope they won’t all die.” 

“ There’s no telling. To-day we are what we 
are, and to-morrow we’re cast into the oven — 
you Rebecca, you lazy coon ! take a piece out of 
that broom and see if those loaves of bread are 
done.” 

Rebecca sprang like a frightened rabbit to the 
oven, and then Susan resumed her confidences. 

“ Now I remember it was not exactly in this 
kitchen we had the party: ’twas in the winter 
kitchen. This is built out from the house, to be 
cooler in summer ; but ’tis much the same thing. 
The cook’s Uncle Mike married a good woman 
but beneath him, Rebecca, — it’s the one cross 
of the cook’s life, Rebecca ; and don’t you ever 
speak of it.” 

“ Law sakes ! ” cried Rebecca, who had re- 
stored the loaves of bread to the oven. “ I don’t 
speak to no cook unless she speaks to me. I ain’t 
say in’ nothing against her, but she looks at me 
as if I was low-down white trash. I’m quiet 
enough when she's around.” 

“ She’s not used to American ways yet, Re- 
becca. In the old country she didn’t know what 
it was to wet her hands, and it took her years 
to know the difference between a bucket and a 
dish-pan. But the past is past, and she can’t 


28 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


bear to have it mentioned. As I was saying, 
she does her duty, and treats Uncle Mike’s wife 
as if she were her equal. She never makes the 
slightest difference between her and me, but her 
heart’s palpitating all the time.” 

“ Law sakes ! ” cried the open-mouthed Rebecca. 
“ I don’t see how she lives ! ” 

“ Lives ! ” said Susan, shaking her head, mourn- 
fully. “There’s them that loves dear gazelles 
and them that don’t ; and them that don’t are 
by far the happiest, Rebecca. You remember 
the poetry about it, don’t you ? ” 

“ Law sakes ! ” said Rebecca, delighted with 
the compliment. “ Of course I do. 

“ ‘ Now I lay me down to sleep, ’ ” 

Susan smiled in a superior manner. 

“ Let it pass,” she said. “ Rebecca, look after 
the jumbles.” 

Rebecca darted to the big oven again, as if 
struck by lightning. 

“ When the boys are gone, they’re gone ! ” re- 
sumed Susan, calmly. 

“And it’s my belief that Miss McBride will 
have a great deal to answer for, — teaching help- 
less boys things that their parents have to spend 
money a-having them unlearn at other schools. 
‘Susan,’ the cook said, with her hand on the 
door-knob — and these were her last words, — ‘ it 
is the educated that suffer. If I had me life to 


A TERRIBLE SCARE. 


29 


go over again, it’s little I’d have to do with sub- 
stracshin or compound fractures.’ And when I 
see what’s going on around me — families broken 
up, and children that were blessings to all around 
them going away forever maybe, — I think she’s 
right.” 

“ Mighty me ! ” exclaimed Rebecca, giggling. 
“I’m very glad I haven’t much education.” 

“ It’s easy seen,” retorted Susan, grimly ; “ for 
you’re letting something burn ! ” 

The rebuked Rebecca dived into the huge oven ; 
and Susan, who was enjoying herself very much, 
began to revel in gloom again. 

“It’s in few families a girl could live,” she 
said, “ and see such angelic boys, — for the nature 
of boys is not angelic ” 

“ Law sakes ! ” interrupted Rebecca. “ Rorthe’n 
boys must be mighty different from Southe’n 
boys, if they’re angels.” 

“ But you haven’t seen much of ’em, Rebecca 
— and you won’t, because they’re going away. 
‘ I can’t bear to think of it,’ said the cook, as I 
buttoned her glove on the doorstep — and they 
were almost her last words, — 4 it’s just as if the 
breath was leaving my body when I think of 
what will happen to-morrow.’ These were almost 
her last words.” 

The kitchen had begun to grow dark ; for it 
was a cloudy day, and twilight had set in earlier 
than usual. 


30 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ It reminds me of the time of the five dark 
days. I have a creeping all over me, Rebecca.” 

“ Law sakes ! The five dark days ! When did 
that happen ? ” asked Rebecca, her eyes bulging 
out. 

“ You just ’tend to that bread ! And the boys 
were as gentle as lambs. Well, them that lives 
longest sees the most.” 

Rebecca had lighted the gas jet, when some- 
thing occurred that turned her face almost white. 
It was her opinion that the five dark days had 
come back with a crash. A heavy body hit the 
roof of the kitchen with a dull thud. Susan 
screamed ; Rebecca threw her apron over her 
head and clung to the ironing table. The sound 
was not repeated at once ; but when Rebecca 
had tremblingly uncovered her head, and Susan 
had opened her lips to speak, another thud was 
heard. Susan and Rebecca threw themselves on 
their knees and clung to each other. 

“ There’s murder going on on the roof ! ” ex- 
claimed Susan. 

Rebecca, scarcely knowing what she did, be- 
gan to utter a series of howls. This proceeding 
brought back Susan’s sense of propriety. She 
ran into the yard ; she could perceive in the 
gloom of gathering twilight what seemed to be 
a dark body on the sloping roof of the kitchen. 
She took hold of the post that upheld the roof ; 
but drew herself away quickly, for her hand was 


A TERRIBLE SCARE. 


31 


at once moistened with a sticky substance. She 
uttered a scream. Could it be blood ? 

She believed that there was nobody in the 
house. Mrs. Chumleigh had gone out in the 
afternoon, and Mr. Chumleigh had announced 
his intention of calling for her at the house to 
which she had gone. The boys had started to 
say good-bye to Miss McBride. 

Susan rushed into the kitchen and looked at 
her hand: it bore a red stain. She washed it 
hastily at the sink. 

“ Rebecca,” she said, “ there has been a man 
killed on the roof of the kitchen. Maybe they 
were listening to what we were saying. If you 
have to go into court, Rebecca, don’t you open 
your lips.” 

Rebecca, her eyes bulging to a tremendous 
extent, her mouth wide open, her face a greyish 
hue, could only murmur : “ I’m done gone ! I’m 
done gone ! ” 

“ Come with me,” Susan said, “ and we’ll find 
a policeman.” 

They threw their shawls hastily about them 
and ventured out into the twilight. The street 
was silent. To Susan and Rebecca, there seemed 
to be something mysterious in this silence, — 
something threatening. In a half hour men 
would begin to come from their workshops and 
offices ; then the street would be noisy enough. 
Rebecca clung to Susan in abject fear. They 


32 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


went the length of the square, still no policeman 
was visible. 

“O Rebecca,” Susan said, suddenly, with a 
gasp, “I’ve left the house alone! Do you go 
back ! ” 

“ Go back ? ” said Rebecca. “ I don’t go back 
with no two dead bodies on the roof.” 

“ Two ! ” exclaimed Susan. “ Were there two ? 
Did you see two ? ” 

“ I’m done sure there were two.” 

Susan could say no more ; it was plainly un- 
reasonable to expect poor Rebecca to keep house 
with no two dead bodies on the kitchen roof. 

“ I knew something would happen, by the way 
the cook looked at me. ‘ Susan,’ she said — and 
it was almost her last word, — ‘ it is a fine day for 
walking.’ Why should she have said that, if it 
didn’t mean something ? And a fine day it is, 
with two corpses on Mrs. Chumleigh’s kitchen 
roof.” 

“ I’ll leave the place this very night,” said Re- 
becca. 

“You will, will you?” said Susan, grasping 
her arm. “ You’ll go further and fare worse ; and 
I’ll keep an eye on you, and the eye of a seventh 
daughter ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said Rebecca, in affright. All sorts 
of horrors seemed to threaten her. “ I’ll stay — 
at least till after the funerals.” 

“ You don’t think we’re going to muss up our 


A TERRIBLE SCARE. 


33 


house having funerals for two strange dead 
bodies, do you ? Well, I like that ! ” 

Rebecca began to cry. 

“I done wish I was back in Princess Anne 
county,” she said, under her breath. 

Susan whirled her along the street. Here and 
there groups of happy children were playing on 
the pavements in front of the red brick houses, 
with the beautifully white steps. Susan was glad 
to see one group in a ring, singing : 


“ Gravel, green gravel, your grass is so green ! ” 


It was a relief to hear such commonplace 
words in her tragical state of mind. 

“ I wish we had alarmed the neighbors,” she 
said. “ But isn’t that a policeman ? ” 

There was a figure in blue before them. He 
was standing at the corner of a street. Susan 
recognized him at once : he was a friend of 
the car conductor to whom cook often sent 
hot coffee. Susan felt that the proper thing was 
to faint at once, but she could not trust Rebecca 
to be sufficiently sympathetic ; so she ran rapidly 
up to James Markis, which was the policeman’s 
name. 

“ Can I do any thing for you, ladies ? ” he asked, 
politely. 

“ Oh, you can, Mr. Markis ! ” said Susan, breath- 
lessly. “We were both talking in the kitchen, 


34 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


and I was thinking of cook’s last words, when I 
noticed that it suddenly became dark ” 

“ Two dead bodies on the roof ! ” interrupted 
Rebecca, her teeth chattering. 

“ Oh, it’s Miss Susan ! ” said the policeman, 
straightening himself. “ I am glad to be of use. 
How is Missus Cook ? ” 

“ Oh, you don’t know what has happened ! ” 
i ried Susan. “ Her last words were ” 

“ Dear S dear ! ” said the policeman, replacing 
his club in his belt. “ It must have been very 
sudden ; she was quite a stout woman, too. And 
she was always kind to Jim. A power of good 
her hot coffee has done Jim on cold days. I’m 
sorry she has gone. Well ! well ! ” 

Susan burst into tears. 

“ I knew by the strange look on her face that 
she was doomed. O Mr. Markis, did it happen at 
Uncle Mike’s ! Oh, take me to her ! ” 

“ There’s two dead bodies on the roof,” mut- 
tered Rebecca, who could understand only one 
thing at a time. 

“ What roof ? ” asked the policeman, who was 
beginning to be slightly bewildered. 

“ Our roof, Mr. Policeman,” answered Rebecca. 
“ Law sakes ! And we’ve been all soaked with 
human gore.” 

“ Do you mean this ? ” asked the policeman, 
hurriedly. 

“Yes, it’s true,” said Susan, weeping; “but 


A TERRIBLE SCARE. 


35 


I’d as lief there were twenty bodies on the roof, 
if cook was only alive. I never shall forget her 
last words, — never ! Something told me that I 
should never see her again.” 

“I’d better ring for an ambulance. Per- 
haps vou’d like to ride back in the ambulance, 
ladies?” 

“Sir!” exclaimed Susan. “What! Me de- 
mane myself that way and my best friend breath- 
ing her last ! If you’d call a carriage ” 

“But how did the cook get on the roof?” 
began the policeman. Before Susan could answer 
this astonishing question, he sighted an empty 
carriage. “ Take these ladies to Mr. Chumleigh’s,” 
he said authoritatively to the cabman. 

Susan was helped into the vehicle, and Rebecca 
followed, grinning widely. She forgot all her 
recent terrors in the joy of driving in a coach 
with a glass front. 

Just as Mr. and Mrs. Chumleigh reached their 
door — it was about six o’clock — an ambulance 
drove up with a great clatter. The policeman 
dropped down from the seat, and said politely : 

“ I hope it won’t alarm Mrs. Chumleigh, sir, 
but there are two dead bodies on the roof, and 
one of them is your cook. She passed away sud- 
denly.” 

“ Good Heavens ! ” exclaimed the amazed 
master of the house. 

“And where is Susan?” gasped Mrs. Chum- 


36 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


leigh. “ What does it mean ? Where are the 
boys ? ” 

A carriage had driven up behind the ambu- 
lance ; it stopped, and Susan and Rebecca jumped 
out. 

“ 0 Mrs. Chumleigh,” Susan said, in tears, 
“that I should live to tell it! And her last 
words in my mind all day ! ” 

“ It must be true,” said Mr. Chumleigh. “ Poor 
cook! she was very stout; it was probably ap- 
oplexy. But what was she doing on the kitchen 
roof ? And where are the boys ? Ah, here they 
are ! ” 

Jack, Bob Bently, Faky Dillon and Baby 
Maguire appeared on the steps, looking much 
pleased and innocently surprised. 

“ Here, Susan,” said Mr. Chumleigh, “ you take 
Mrs. Chumleigh over to Mrs. Bently’s, while I 
and the boys investigate.” 

“ Poor innocents ! ” said Susan, as she walked 
beside her astonished mistress. “ Little do they 
dream of what is before them ! ” 


THE LAST STRAW. 


37 


III. 

THE LAST STRAW. 

Great was Mr. Chumleigh’s consternation at 
what he had seen and heard. 

“ There must be some mistake, some exagger- 
ation,” he said. “ It cannot be possible that so 
terrible a thing has happened. What have you 
boys been doing ? ” he asked, sharply. 

Mr. Markis, the two men who had come with 
the ambulance, and Kebecca turned their eyes on 
the boys. 

“ What is the matter ? ” asked Baby Maguire. 
“O uncle, what is the matter? We were just 
up in Jack’s room waiting for dinner.” 

Jack, Faky, Bob Bently, and Thomas Jefferson 
breathed sighs of relief. Suppose they should 
have been obliged to tell about the watermelon ? 
It would have meant school at once, without the 
reprieve they hoped for. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” said Faky Dillon, “ I wish we 
hadn’t done it.” 

“You’re always wishing that, Faky , — after 
you’ve done things,” replied Thomas Jefferson, 
in a whisper. 

“This is a terrible thing, boys,” said Mr. 


38 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Markis, gravely. “ The cook is dead, — died sud- 
denly on the roof of your house.” 

Jack’s face became pale. 

“ O father ! ” he said, “ I am so sorry ! She 
was such a good woman.” 

“ Law sakes ! ” said Rebecca, beginning to 
weep aloud. “ She was an angel, — that’s what 
she was ! None of your po’ white trash. You’d 
think she’d always lived in an East’n Sho’ family. 
And to think of her going off just like the flowers 
of the field ! ” 

The boys looked up at Mr. Chumleigh with 
shocked faces. Baby Maguire whispered to Faky 
Dillon : 

“ I knew something would happen to prevent 
our going to school.” 

Faky punched him quietly in the ribs. 

“ She was such a good woman ! ” Bob Bently 
echoed, moist around the eyes. 

“ Take her for all and all,” said Mr. Markis, 
who was given to literature, u we ne’er shall see 
her like again. Her hot coffee has helped many 
a fainting fellow-creature. But hadn’t we better 
be doing something? Suppose we go into the 
house with the surgeon here ? ” 

Mr. Chumleigh again looked sharply at the 
boys. The clear, innocent expression on their 
faces when they first appeared had awakened his 
suspicions. He saw now that they were really 
sorry. Still, he had some doubts. 


THE LAST STRAW. 


89 


“ How was this sad affair discovered ? ” he 
asked, as they entered the house. 

“ I heard the dead bodies fall,” said Rebecca, 
delighted to be the object of general attention. 
The surgeon and a man from the ambulance 
corps had already gone up to the attic by way of 
reaching the roof. 

“ The bodies fall ! ” repeated Mr. Chumleigh, 
in horror. He lighted the hall lamp. The boys 
gathered closely around him. “ What do you 
mean, Rebecca ? What bodies ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Rebecca, twisting her 
apron. “ I heard them going on aurful on the 
roof, and Susan was all sprinkled with gore.” 

“Upon my word,” said Mr. Chumleigh, glanc- 
ing again at the frightened faces of the boys, 
“this is a pretty state of things. I want to 
know where you were, young gentlemen, while 
all this was taking place ? ” 

“ At Miss McBride’s,” answered Jack, promptly. 
“We went to say good-bye, and she gave us her 
picture. Cook had gone to see little Guy. It’s 

her day out, you know ” 

“ And when we got back, uncle,” interrupted 
Baby Maguire, “ we just sat in Jack’s room 
and told one another how we loved our home, 
and how we hated to go away from you and our 
dear teacher.” 

“ And what else ? ” asked Mr. Chumleigh, 
sternly. 


40 


JACK CHtJMLEIGH. 


“We opened the watermelon Miley sent to 
us,” continued Baby, “ and it was bad. Then we 
heard a noise at the door, and we came down.” 

“There was no harm in all that,” said Mr. 
Chumleigh. “ No — stay where you are, boys ; 
the surgeon said he would call us when he 
wanted us. I still think there must be some 
mistake. Did you see the cook come home, 
Rebecca ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Rebecca, “ I didn’t see nuthin’ ! 
And Susan said if I did, I was to keep my lips 
closed. She said her heart was just gone broke 
because her dear pets were going to school. She 
said ’twas a judgment for sending the children 
away.” 

Mr. Chumleigh smiled faintly in spite of him- 
self. 

Mr. Markis came downstairs, followed by the 
two other men. 

“There’s nothing on the roof, sir,” he said. 
“ There’s no trace of any disturbance there.” 

Mr. Chumleigh was more puzzled than ever. 
He did not speak. 

“ O Rebecca, I’m so sorry ! ” whispered Jack, 
— “ I’m so sorry ! It will break Susan’s heart.” 

“ I must get at the bottom of this,” said Mr. 
Chumleigh. “ How did you know that the cook 
was dead ? ” 

“ Oh, I heard it ! ” said Rebecca. “ Mr. Markis 
there done tell us.” 


THE LAST STRAW. 


41 


“ I! ” said Mr. Markis, in astonishment. “ I! 
You must be dreaming, young lady. I never 
told anybody such a thing. You and Susan told 
me.” 

“ Golly ! ” said Rebecca, “ I never said no 
such thing. I heard you tell Susan with your 
own lips. You just go and look on the roof 
of the summer kitchen, and you’ll see sights.” 

Mr. Markis looked at Susan with pity in his 
eye. 

“ That young colored lady is crazy, Mr. Chum- 
leigh,” he said. “I know no more about the 
death of Missus Cook than I know of geometry. 
I am sure that there is nothing remarkable on 
the roof of this house.” 

“ You’d better know what you are talking of 
before you call a respectable colored lady crazy,” 
retorted Rebecca. “ Susan and me were talking 
about the five dark days in the kitchen when two 
corpses fell on the roof. Mr. Markis said one 
was the cook.” 

The policeman opened his mouth, but Rebecca 
did not give him a chance to speak. 

“ It was like thunder falling on the roof. The 
noise was awful.” 

Thomas Jefferson clutched Faky’s arm. 

“ O Faky,” he whispered, “ we’re gone ! ” 

Faky’s eyes sparkled. 

“How did you feel about it, Rebecca? Was 
Susan frightened ? ” 


42 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Frightened ! ” said Rebecca. “ I should say 
so ; her face, except her freckles, was as white as 
chalk. She just clung to me. ‘ Susan,’ says I, 
‘ be carm ! ’ But she wouldn’t be carm nohow. 
And then we ran and ran, — I holding Susan from 
s wounding just like a baby ; and then we met 
Mr. Markis, and ” 

Faky Dillon could restrain himself no longer. 
He shook with laughter. The others — except 
Thomas Jefferson, whose face was distended by 
a broad grin, — looked at him, with fear tugging 
at their heart-strings. 

“ What do you mean, sir ? ” asked Mr. Chum- 
leigh, losing patience. “ Tell me at once what 
do you mean by this frivolous conduct ? Speak, 
sir ! ” 

“ I don’t mean anything, sir,” replied Thomas 
Jefferson, looking frightened; “ but Rebecca — ” 
here his tendency to giggle was too much for 
him, — “ but Rebec — Rebecca talks so funny ! ” 

“ Oh, you needn’t make so much fuss, Re- 
becca ! ” remonstrated Baby, in an injured tone. 
“ I’m sure it didn’t hit you” 

“ It ! ” cried Rebecca. “ I reckon not, — there 
were two of them. I’d have just died if they 
touched me.” 

The policeman appeared again, with the sur- 
geon and the driver. 

“ Your servants have been frightened by noth- 
ing, Mr. Chumleigh. Everything in the house is 


THE LAST STRAW. 


43 


in good order. There is nothing whatever on 
the kitchen roof.” 

“I am sorry that you have had all this trouble, 
Doctor,” Mr. Chumleigh replied, politely. Then 
he tipped the driver, and in a few minutes the 
ambulance was heard to drive away. 

“ We must get to the bottom of this,” said Mr. 
Chumleigh, gravely. “ I have reason to believe 
that these boys know more about the matter 
than they are willing to admit. Now, Jack, tell 
me what all this means.” 

Jack looked up at his father appealingly. His 
first impulse was to say : “ I do not know, sir.” 
A year ago he would have said this on a similar 
occasion, and regretted it afterward. 

Baby Maguire went close to his elbow and 
whispered : 

“ Don’t tell ! ” 

Mr. Chumleigh quietly led the way into the 
parlor. Jack followed him. The rest remained 
in the hall, where the gas jet cast a greenish 
light on apprehensive faces. The knob of the 
door turned, and the boys started like guilty 
creatures. Susan entered the hall ; she walked 
very slowly and spoke in a whisper : 

“ I suppose the worst has come to the worst. 
Mrs. Chumleigh sent me to find out. ’Tis a sad 
day for us all.” 

“ Y es, the worst has come to the worst, Susan,” 
said Bob. “ You’ve got us into a nice scrape by 


44 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


your foolishness. We’ve got to go to school 
now. Mr. Chumleigh is interviewing Jack in 
there. There is no escape now. I don’t see why 
you need go to call ambulances and policemen 
and things, just because Miley’s watermelon 
fell — ” Bob checked himself ; he would tell the 
truth, at all events — “ was thrown on the roof of 
the kitchen.” 

“Bob Bentlv,” said Susan, severely, “is this 
the example you’re giving Rebecca and the boys ? 
Is it lies and tricks I’m to be listening to, and 
my best friend gone like the grass of the field ? 
Do you know what has happened? You’re that 
hard-hearted that it’s a wonder her spirit doesn’t 
come back to haunt you.” 

The door that led into the hall from the back 
of the house suddenly opened, and in the dimly- 
lighted doorway, attired in a rustling silk gown 
and a broche shawl, with four red poppies piled 
above her forehead, in a purple velvet bonnet, 
stood the cook ! 

“ It is like her to the life,” whispered Susan. 
“ Ah ! I’ll be after seeing visions of her till my 
dying day.” 

Rebecca uttered a shriek and covered her face 
with her apron. The boys, who thought the 
cook looked very angry, waited for her to speak. 

“Is it you, Susan, and you, Rebecca,” she be- 
gan, “ that I see playing the l&dy up here, and 
the kitchen full of disorder, and the house full of 


THE LAST STKAW. 


45 


the smell of apple-dumplings — and apples going 
up in price every day ? Am I awake or do I 
dream ? And the roast beef not even on the fire ? 
And me finding the back door open and a strange 
dog with his head in the milk-can ? Do I dream, 
I say ? ” 

The voice sounded so familiar and earthly that 
Rebecca’s face emerged from under her apron, 
and her eyes bulged out to their fullest extent as 
she listened. If this was really the cook, she had 
reason to fear ; but if it were only her ghost, 
Susan, with her intimate acquaintance with ap- 
paritions, would know how to deal with her. 

“ It is of your soul you ought to be thinking, 
after what you’ve just come through,” Susan be- 
gan. “ Your place is in the grave, anyhow ; and 
don’t come bladgering about here and disturbing 
decent people.” 

The cook leaned against the door-post for sup- 
port. “ If a spear had entered my breast,” she 
said afterward to Baby Maguire, “it couldn’t 
have pierced the upper-crust of my heart more.” 

“ In my grave, ma’am ! ” repeated the cook. 
“And is it the likes of you that speaks to me 
thus, — and me not more than a year or two older 
than yourself, ma’am ? ’Tis the way of the 
world. Well, children, I’ll have to forget these 
insults and strive to get }^ou some dinner, or your 
mother will be soon asking the reason why. As 
to you, Susan, I leave you to your conscience, and 


46 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


I hope ’twill clear you. Come, Rebecca, don’t 
be grinning like an ape.” 

Rebecca bounded forward, and went out be- 
hind the majestic figure of the cook. 

“ The cook is all right,” said Faky. “ She isn’t 
a ghost, Susan. And you’d better go and help 
her. Mrs. Chumleigh will be home soon.” 

Susan turned to the boys with dignity. 

“It is ingratitude I expect. ’Twas ingrati- 
tude I was made for. But I didn’t expect you to 
turn against me. It is my belief that you’re at 
the bottom of this mischief, and I hope you’ll be 
well punished for it ; for a more agglutinous and 
contriving set of bo} r s I have never met. And 
it’s well you are going to school, where I hope 
you’ll learn to value the friends you’ve lost.” 

Susan flounced out of the hall, and left the 
boys to their thoughts. Bob Bently and Faky 
Dillon manfully stood their ground, although 
they were rather afraid of Mr. Chumleigh. Baby 
Maguire and Thomas Jefferson, full of anxiety 
about the apple-dumplings, followed Susan. 

After a time Mr. Chumleigh and Jack came 
out of the parlor. Poor Jack’s eyes looked 
somewhat red. Mr. Chumleigh had a severe 
air. 

“ This last performance has finally decided 
me,” he said. “ I had begun to think, owing to 
Mrs. Chumleigh’s persuasions, that my boys would 
do quite as well at home as at Professor Grigg’s 


THE LAST STRAW. 


47 


school. I am now convinced that they need more 
stringent discipline. I shall telegraph my final 
decision to the professor to-morrow. You go, 
Jack, by the evening train.” 

Bob Bently groaned. 

“Your father will, I presume, follow my ex- 
ample. This performance, Master Bob, is the 
last straw ” 

Bob groaned again ; and, in the weakness of 
woe, sat down suddenly on the China umbrella- 
stand recently sent over from Japan by Uncle 
Ferrier. It was not intended to bear such weight ; 
and Bob fell, with a loud crash, among its frag- 
ments, just as Mrs. Chumleigh entered the hall. 

“ This is the last straw,” observed Mr. Chum- 
leigh, with a certain grimness,— “ though I can- 
not say it has broken a camel’s back.” 

And then Mrs. Chumleigh had to listen to ex- 
planations from all sides. 


48 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


IV. 

THE LILIES. 

There had been silence in the Chumleigh 
house all day. The boys had gone to Uncle 
Mike’s, to say good-bye to Guy ; and the usual 
sounds of conversation, growing louder when 
Rebecca let something fall, were not heard from 
the kitchen. Mrs. Chumleigh, busy with the 
boys’ boxes, wondered at the unusual stillness. 
She began to fear that it forboded mischief, until 
she remembered that the boys had gone out. 

The boys had feared that their visit to Guy 
might be prevented entirely, or that Jack might 
be sent off alone. But Mrs. Chumleigh, when 
the episode of the watermelon had been well ex- 
plained to her, declared that Guy should not 
suffer because of it. Besides, the cook had taken 
the boys’ side of the question. “ If Susan chose 
to think that watermelon juice meant murder,” 
she said, “it wasn’t their fault.” She hoped 
’twould be a warning to Susan not to be fill- 
ing her head with stories about banshees and 
ghosts. 

It was a bright day in September. The lilies 
in the garden had just opened, and their ribbed 


THE LILIES. 


49 


trumpets held golden dust and the most exquisite 
perfume. This garden at the side of the Chum- 
leigli house was only a city yard, after all. It 
consisted of a red brick walk, on either side of 
which were large tangles of old-fashioned flowers. 
On one side, in the narrower strip, were bushes 
of chrysanthemums, — not the fashionable, mon- 
strous chrysanthemums, but the smaller ones ; 
and these were a reddish purple in October. In 
the spring, up from this narrower strip came the 
star of Bethlehem. And in June the fence on 
this side was covered with a running prairie rose, 
which was pretty but scentless. At the end of 
the yard there was an arbor covered with wood- 
bine ; and behind the quaint old hydrant — a 
pump had once stood there — a mass of Mexican 
vine, with bugle-shaped flowers. 

In the wider bed, at the other side of the brick 
path — which Rebecca scrubbed every morning, 
— were lady’s-slippers, clumps of the fragile ice- 
plant, patches of four-o’clocks, heliotrope, white 
and purple columbines, bits of verbena, a sweet- 
william or two, above which towered three dahlia 
stalks. Another arbor, over which climbed an 
Isabella grapevine, completed the garden ; though 
there were bushes of sorrel and chickweed hidden 
in the shade of the greater things. But the glory 
of it all was the row of lilies against the fence. 
Their leaves were large, oval, and ribbed, and 
were beautiful in themselves, — much more beau- 


50 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


tiful than the straight, upright spikes of the 
orange lily, which, much to Susan’s disgust, al- 
ways opened about the 12th of July. 

Faky Dillon could never look at the lilies with- 
out a shudder. They reminded him of school. 
Their buds began to show about the middle of 
August. Then a gloom settled over Faky, which 
he shook off only at times. Each day, as the 
lilies grew and people admired them, Faky felt 
sadder and sadder. He did not hate the white 
lilies as Susan hated the orange lilies, but he 
wished that they could keep back their flowers 
until October, which, he thought, would be the 
proper month for the opening of school. There 
were no lilies in his father’s yard, and he was 
glad of it ; although it was annoying to have to 
dodge under the wet clothes on the lines when 
he was playing hand-ball. Nevertheless, the lilies 
in the Chumleigh yard had a strange attraction 
for Faky, and he visited them every day, only to 
sigh at the near approach of those melancholy 
days when he should be obliged to sit still from 
nine o’clock to twelve, and from two to four. 
The day had come at last when the lilies had 
done their worst. They were blooming in a row 
— a score of them, — and the air about them was 
so sick with perfume that, as Rebecca said, “ A 
silver half dollar would not sink in it.” 

Mrs. Chumleigh had given the boys permission 
to take some flowers to Guy, and Faky Dillon 


THE LILIES. 


51 


had a cruel satisfaction in cutting at least fifteen 
lilies. 

“You don’t know any better, of course,” he 
said to them, as he used the scissors ; “ but you’ll 
have to suffer for it, all the same. If you only 
had sense enough, you’d come out at some pleas- 
anter time.” 

Jack armed himself with the whole clump of 
white sweet-williams ; and Thomas Jefferson used 
several yards of string in tying up an exceedingly 
stiff bouquet, including a little of everything, 
with a big yellow dahlia in the middle. He had 
intended to present the tadpole to Guy ; but it 
had escaped or evaporated during the night, and 
he had, in the morning, found the bottle over- 
turned and empty. He was glad that he had 
not promised him the tadpole ; for the sudden 
disappearance of the precious creature would 
have been a sad disappointment to the little 
boy. 

Bob Bently had brought a checker-board and 
some checkers, and Baby Maguire had provided 
himself with a pasteboard box of lemon taffy. 
And when the quintette entered the street car, 
anticipation had for the present made even Faky 
forget the gloom of the season. 

The trip to Uncle Mike’s was a very pleasant 
one. Baby Maguire was as meek as a little 
cherub embowered with lilies; for Thomas Jef- 
ferson had transferred his fragrant burden to 


52 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


him, in order to play jackstones with Skinny 
McMullen, who was carrying a bundle of washed 
clothes to a friend of his mother’s. There were 
not many people in the car, so that the game 
went merrily on in one corner. Jack and Bob 
conversed seriously, as became two who had 
awakened to the realities of life. Faky munched 
an apple, and Baby sat quite still, smiling sweetly 
at two old ladies opposite. 

The old ladies were dressed in black, and each 
carried a capacious reticule of the old-fashioned 
straw kind. Their talk was not unusually loud, 
but they had the general opinion that the street 
cars are the best possible places in the world for 
confidential conversation. Jack and Bob soon 
learned, in spite of themselves, that these ladies 
were sisters ; and that their sister-in-law, named 
Sarah, was a bad-tempered person. They seldom 
went out, it seemed ; but they were now on their 
way to Fairmount Park, to attend a family pic- 
nic. There were jelly rolls in the reticule and 
beef sandwiches, also quince tarts, and the old 
ladies hoped they would not be crushed. 

“ Look at Baby ! ” Jack whispered, in a tone of 
contempt. “ Look at him ! He is bound to 
have one of those jelly rolls. The little sneak ! ” 

Bob looked, and frowned balefully at Baby, 
whose eyes, gleaming innocently behind the lilies, 
were fixed on the old ladies. 

“ What a nice little boy ! ” one of the old ladies 


THE LILIES. 


53 


said, when she had finished a long recital of the 
strange doings of her sister-in-law. 

“ He is so sweet ! ” observed the other, smiling 
at Baby. 

Faky Dillon could not stand this. It struck 
him at once that Baby ought not to have a 
monopoly of whatever might be bestowed by these 
amiable old ladies. He sat up very straight, and 
smiled sweetly in imitation of Baby. But while 
Baby’s smile was pathetic — as became a young 
person with nerves, — Faky’s was not so attract- 
ive. 

“ Dear me ! ” said the first old lady. “ What 
a contrast that other boy is to the first ! He 
grins like — oh, something dreadful ! He has 
such an evil look! He quite makes me shudder.” 

“ Quite ! ” said the second old lady. 

Bob Bently burst into a cruel laugh, in which 
Jack and Thomas Jefferson, who had been listen- 
ing joined. 

Faky’s face turned scarlet, and he made a 
lunge with his fist at Jack. A playful scrimmage 
followed, during which the old ladies looked on 
with horror. 

“ Come and sit near us, little boy,” said the 
first old lady, who had a kind face. “ I wonder 
that you can endure those rude creatures.” 

“ Flow neat and clean he is ! What a beauti- 
ful white collar ! ” said the second old lady, 
while the boys sat afar off and waited. 


54 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“I bet that fellow gets a jelly roll!” whis- 
pered Bob. 

“ Two ! ” said Jack, who had no doubt of 
Baby’s success. 

“ Where are you going ? ” asked the first old 
lady. 

Baby raised his eyes modestly and looked over 
his lilies — “like a freckled Cupid on a valen- 
tine,” Faky thought. 

“ I am about to visit a crippled little boy,” he 
said, sweetly. 

“ How kind ! ” said the second old lady. 
“ Quite like a bit out of a story-book. You must 
be hungry, — little boys are always hungry.” 
And the old lady, with a pleasant smile, un- 
clasped her reticule. 

“ I am seldom hungry,” said Baby, in his most 
pathetic voice ; “ but sometimes in the morning I 
eat a little, — about this time. I have nerves, you 
know.” 

The kind old lady opened her reticule, and the 
boys saw her draw carefully from it two quince 
tarts. A suppressed groan rent Faky Dillon’s 
breast. Baby dropped the lilies on the seat and 
looked pathetically expectant. 

Just as the first old lady was about to bestow 
the tarts upon Baby her sister touched her arm 
warningly. 

“The child is delicate,” she said. “You had 
better be careful. They might upset him for the 


THE LILIES. 


55 


whole day. — No, little boy, you must not eat 
pastry until after dinner.” 

Here the conductor suddenly called out “ Arch 
Street ! ” The old lady tried to put the tarts 
back into her reticule, and arose in a great flutter. 

Jack jumped out, to help the old ladies from 
the platform. He had a very warm spot in his 
heart for all old ladies. The second old lady 
descended, with Jack’s help, and said: 

“ Thank you ! ” 

The first smiled, as he carefully aided her, and 
gave him the tarts. 

“ Please relieve me of these,” she said, kindly. 
“ Thank you ! You are a very polite boy.” 

Jack reentered the car, much pleased by the 
praise he had received. 

“ I tell you what I’ll do,” he said, wrapping 
the tarts in his morning’s handkerchief, which 
he unfolded for the purpose. “ I’ll give these to 
little Guy.” 

Baby turned his face to his window, while 
remarks were made by Faky Dillon and Thomas 
Jefferson that made him feel like a martyr. 

Nothing happened until they bade good-bye 
to Skinny McMullen by “ tagging ” him in suc- 
cession ; during which violent amusement his 
bundle broke loose from its fastenings, and it re- 
quired the aid of the conductor to put it together 
again. 

“ Boys ! ” this much-tried person said, as our 


56 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


friends disappeared around the corner. “ I call 
’em hyenas ! ” 

Uncle Mike was in his shop when they arrived. 
His chin-whiskers were somewhat tinged with 
grey, and they were not so straggling as they 
had been. In fact, they now resembled a wreath 
of greyish flax that had fallen from his head, 
which was bald, and caught him under the chin. 
His face was ruddy and happy. His blue eyes 
twinkled when he saw the boys. 

“ We expected you ! ” he said, cordially, lay- 
ing down the cleaver with which he was about 
to cut a slice of ham for a waiting little girl. 
“ And it is glad I am to see you, young gentle- 
men. And it’s Guy that will be glad to see you. 
And it’s the wife herself will be delighted for to 
welcome you. Walk upstairs ! ” 

“I like Uncle Mike,” said Faky, as they made 
their way up the narrow stairs. “ He makes 
you feel like a man. He always takes it for 
granted that you want to do right.” 

“ That’s just my feeling,” said Thomas Jeffer- 
son. 

Guy was ready to receive them. He stood up 
to welcome them, with a bright flush in his 
cheeks. Behind him stood Uncle Mike’s wife, 
looking as happy as possible. The room was 
beautified by all Jack’s gifts, and more besides. 
But Jack and Bob saw nothing except little 
Guy’s bright face. 


GUY AND HIS BEST FRIEND. 


57 


Y. 

GUY AND HIS BEST FRIEND. 

Guy had grown healthier in appearance, and 
the boys were delighted at the change. The lit- 
tle fellow grasped one arm of his chair and stood 
up to greet them, the flush of surprise still on his 
cheek. Jack stood in the middle of the floor, 
admiring Guy, who looked very happy. 

Many changes had taken place in Guy’s life of 
late, — not outward changes, but inward changes. 
In the old days he had been content if Aunt 
Mary, as he now called Uncle Mike’s wife, came 
home safe to their little room. That was the 
happiness of his day. He had endured the long 
hours of loneliness in that hope, — the weekly 
visit to the church being the other epoch of his 
life. 

Now that Uncle Mike took such good care of 
him and Aunt Mary, he had nobody to wait for, 
nobody to worry about. Besides, Aunt Mary 
had many interests outside of himself. He saw, 
with a pang, that she was as fond of Uncle Mike 
as she was of him. She had many visitors, too ; 
and though she looked as carefully after Guy 
as if he were a baby, he felt the difference be- 


58 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


tween this bustling housekeeper, with many 
cheerful cares, and the woman to whom he had 
been everything. When he had been simply 
Guy Pierre, the orphan cripple, she had treated 
him as one of her own ; now that he had been 
found by his relative, the Count de Saint-Pierre, 
who wrote from some European city every 
month, he had been more comfortable. Then he 
was little Guy ; now she called him Master Guy, 
and he did not like it half so well. 

Enough money had been placed to Uncle 
Mike’s account in the bank to give Guy every 
comfort. On Sunday a coach came from the 
livery-stable, and he drove to church. The chil- 
dren of the neighborhood had a fashion of gath- 
ering at the door and watching him descend. 
Some of them audibly wished that they were 
lame, so that they might drive in a fine carriage 
every day. As for Guy, he sighed for the old 
days. 

“ Oh ! if I had only known that Mrs. Mc- 
Crossin ” — he sighed as he thought of that name 
— “ would have lived and kept well, and that she’d 
have somebody to look after her, — if I did, I’d 
have stayed in those little rooms always.” 

But Guy never told all this to Aunt Mary, — 
he kept it to himself. He told it only to the 
three hundred paper soldiers which were his 
principal consolations in hours of solitude and 
depression. These soldiers were in the uniforms 


GUY AND HIS BEST FRIEND. 


59 


of all nations. Guy cut them from the paper 
on which they were printed, and laid them in 
long rows on the bed. While Aunt Mary was 
down in the store — Uncle Mike’s business had 
increased wonderfully since she had taken a 
hand in it, — Guy talked of his hopes and fears 
to the three hundred soldiers. He always put 
sixteen West Point cadets in the front row; for 
they seemed to understand him better than the 
others. 

Another grief bore on the little boy’s heart, 
lie had recently discovered that he could not be- 
come an altar boy, and it made the kind Aunt 
Mary sad to see his wistful eyes fixed on the 
procession of little fellows who crossed the sanc- 
tuary, in the soft glow of candles, every Sunday at 
High Mass. He had long dreamed of being of 
their number ; but one day, lately, he had heard 
a child on the sidewalk say, as he went into the 
church : 

“ He may be rich and drive in a carriage, but 
a cripple can’t be an acolyte, anyhow.” 

This thoughtless speech went like a dagger 
into Guy’s heart. Aunt Mary heard him cry 
many times when he thought she was not near. 
He never told her the reason, but she guessed it. 

Still, in spite of his sorrows — and they seemed 
great to Guy — he grew stronger every day. The 
rich milk, the wholesome food, the careful venti- 
lation, the exact obedience to the doctor’s orders, 


60 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


were gradually improving his health. This gave 
many fears to the late Mrs. McCrossin. 

“ I’m glad to see the child’s face taking a touch 
of color,” she said to Uncle Mike. “ But if he 
begins to get well, they’ll be taking him away 
from us.” 

“The worst troubles,” said Uncle Mike, “are 
those that never happen.” 

But his wife sighed, and watched Guy’s grad- 
ual improvement with some dissatisfaction. She 
loved Guy and wanted him to be happy, but she 
was jealous of his happiness anywhere away 
from herself. 

She was very glad to see the boys, and she 
had made the proper preparations for making 
their last day of freedom as pleasant as possible. 
The flowers were placed in vases, the lilies hav- 
ing the honor of a huge white and gold pitcher ; 
and cookies and milk were served as a slight re- 
fection before dinner. Guy was delighted with 
the gifts. Thomas Jefferson could not refrain 
from telling him about the tadpole ; but Guy 
said that he thought tadpoles ought to be per- 
mitted to remain in their ponds until they be- 
came frogs. This amused Thomas Jefferson very 
much. 

Faky Dillon and Guy played checkers. Baby 
Maguire took his place beside Aunt Mary, and 
began to tell everything he could remember 
since they last met, — making himself the hero of 


GUY AND HIS BEST FRIEND. 


61 


all his stories. Jack and Bob Bently glared at 
him as they heard Aunt Mary’s exclamations of 
wonder and sympathy. At last, unable to stand 
it any longer, they went down to the shop and 
helped Uncle Mike. 

“ After all,” Jack said, as he wrapped up a 
pound of soap under Uncle Mike’s direction, 
“ work isn’t harder than play.” 

“ Not if you don’t have to do it,” said Bob. 
“ If you could leave off work when you liked, 
and if you could do as you pleased, it wouldn’t 
be bad. But suppose you wanted to go to a 
baseball match, and that you had to stay here 
selling mackerel all day, — I guess it wouldn’t 
seem so much like play then.” 

“ That is so,” said Jack, with a sigh, as he 
thought of school. “ A boy in this world is al- 
ways having to do what he doesn’t want to 
do.” 

Faky Dillon, Thomas Jefferson, and Baby 
Maguire came rattling downstairs at this mo- 
ment, anxious to know what the other boys were 
doing. Jack seized the chance of having a quiet 
chat with Guy. He found the boy alone. Mrs. 
McCrossin — or rather Aunt Mary — was engaged 
in looking after the dinner. Guy had his face 
turned toward the window when Jack entered ; 
he did not look at Jack. When he did show his 
face, Jack saw that there had been tears in his 
eyes. 


62 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ What is the matter, Guy ? ” 

The boy did not answer at once. He picked 
up one of the paper soldiers and looked at it ; 
then he laughed tremulously. 

“ The truth is, Jack,” he said, “ I would like to 
talk to you, but I don’t know how to begin. I’m 
so used to talk to these” he added, motioning 
toward the soldiers, “ that I don’t know how to 
talk to anybody else. You know Aunt Mary 
doesn’t have as much time to give to me as she 
had long ago. Of course she is with me more, 
but she is interested in more things. I like Uncle 
Mike very much, of course ; but, you see, he is 
always here in the evening, and I can’t talk be- 
fore him : he seems like a stranger.” 

Jack looked at Guy’s delicate face, and tried 
to think of something suitable to say. 

“ You are so comfortable here,” he said. “It’s 
so much better than the old place.” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Guy, wearily. “ It’s warmer ; 
there’s lots of good things to eat, and I can look 
out into the street and see the boys playing. 
That’s the worst of it.” 

“ Lots of those boys would like to be in your 
place, I’m sure, — to have nothing to do all day, 
and not to have to go away to school.” 

“Do you think so?” asked Guy, lifting his 
eyes. “ Ho, I don’t believe you think so. You 
say that because you pity me. Jack, I am tired 
of being pitied. Nobody likes to be pitied all the 


GUY AND HIS BEST FRIEND. 


63 


time. If I could only do something that would 
make people forget to pity me, I should feel 
better.” 

Jack was silent. He thought steadily. 
Hitherto study had appeared to him as an unnec- 
essary evil, like the measles or the scarlet fever. 
It had to be endured. Ancient history, for in- 
stance, and geography did not seem to be of any 
use. What was he to Pericles, or Pericles to 
him ? And as he never expected to go to Africa, 
what real interest had whole chapters on that be- 
nighted country for him? From his point of 
view, most studies had been inflicted on him 
simply as an easy means devised by grown-up 
people for keeping him out of mischief. 

Guy looked at him intently. Somehow or 
other, he trusted Jack more than anybody else. 
He seemed to know things. Uncle Mike and 
Aunt Mary were good, but they didn’t seem to 
know things. 

“Maybe if you studied something, people 
might be different,” said Jack. “ People seem to 
look up to other people who know whole books 
full.” 

“ Do you think so, Jack ? ” asked Guy, eagerly. 
“ What ought I to study ? ” 

“ The hardest thing, I suppose,” said Jack, with 
a note of sadness in his voice ; “ and that’s 
Ancient History. If you work hard, you’ll learn 
all about the Persians, and the fellow that 


64 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


poisoned himself because they wouldn’t elect him 
to Congress ; and Kegulus, — he rolled down hill 
in a barrel full of spikes ; and about the geese 
that were suckled by a she- wolf. No, — the geese 
cackled when Borne was burning, or something 
of that kind. At any rate, people look up to 
you if you know these things. You might try 
it.” 

Guy’s eyes sparkled. 

“ Do you think that people would forget my 
lameness if I were very learned ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! Miss McBride said you — not you , 
but all of us — might be as ugly as sin ; but if you 
could converse agreeably on subjects of con-tem- 
po-ra-neous interest, you were all hunkey dory. 
If you know all about Komulus and Kemus 
when you go into society, you can do what you 
please.” 

“ But I am not like other boys,” said Guy, wist- 
fully. “ I might not be able to learn. O J ack, 
think of it, — I can never be an altar boy ! ” 

“ Do you really want to be an altar boy ? ” 
asked Jack. “ I was one, but I dropped the book, 
and I was turned off. The sacristan said I was 
too clumsy.” 

“And you don’t mind ? ” asked Guy, in amaze- 
ment. “ Aren’t you sorry ? ” 

“So many things happen to a boy,” said Jack, 
“ that you don’t have time to be sorry for any- 
thing. I’m sorry I have to go to school.” 


GUY AND HIS BEST FRIEND. 65 

“ Oh, I wish I could go ! ” said Guy. “ I’d feel 
like other boys then. Why, your Ancient His- 
tory seems to me to be as amusing as a story- 
book.” 

“ Try it ! ” said Jack, with a sigh. 

“ I’d like to play hockey and baseball and foot- 
ball, and to skate and swim, and to study hard ; 
and then to grow up and know everything. If I 
had somebody to pity or to take care of,” said 
Guy, tears coming into his eyes, “ maybe I 
wouldn’t feel so bad. But everybody pities me.” 

Jack was puzzled. Guy looked less delicate 
than when he lived in the old rooms at the back 
of the Chumleigh house. His eyes were brighter, 
his skin clearer. It was evident to Jack’s ex- 
perienced eyes that he had no muscle ; but his 
legs looked plumper, and his left leg was not so 
much twisted as formerly. 

“ Guy,” he said, timidly, “ I don’t see why you 
shouldn’t get well. Why don’t you pray to get 
well? You’re always praying for things.” 

“ I didn’t think God wanted me to be well,” 
said Guy, thoughtfully. 

“ You’re looking better. Try praying, and 
don’t worry.” 

Guy’s eyes brightened, and he almost laughed. 
“Jack,” he answered, “you’re the best friend I 
ever had.” 


66 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


VI. 

A TALK. 

After dinner, which was on a colossal scale, 
and during which Baby Maguire endeavored to 
excel his friends in “ table manners,” Guy and 
Faky and Jack made a group near the window 
and exchanged confidences, while Thomas Jeffer- 
son was so delighted with Uncle Mike’s business 
that he went downstairs to assist him. 

Baby Maguire went into a corner to indulge in 
his favorite occupation of “ sulking.” He had 
been laughed at, and this was the one thing that 
Baby could not endure. During the dinner, the 
boys had behaved in a manner which would have 
pleased the cook, though their mother might 
have found it rather oppressive. They sat bolt- 
upright ; they passed every plate sent to them by 
Uncle Mike until it reached him again. Nobody 
would take anything to eat until he had been 
asked three times. Aunt Mary — it is very hard 
to keep from calling her Mrs. McCrossin — was 
delighted. Uncle Mike, after he had cordially 
said, “ Don’t be bashful,” found the proceedings 
strangely ceremonious. 

But Baby Maguire longed to do something that 


A TALK. 


67 


would set him above the rest. And so when the 
fried chickens were brought to the table — Aunt 
Mary had thoughtfully provided a drumstick for 
each boy, — and the guests took the legs of the 
fowls very elegantly in their right hands, wrap- 
ping the end of the bone carefully with their nap- 
kins, and proceeded to eat, with the conscious- 
ness of having done more than their duty, Un- 
cle Mike was much impressed. The drumstick 
of a fowl carved on the plate would have been a 
delusion to his guests, and he knew it. It would 
have been like an orange given to a boy with a 
command that he should not suck it ; or like an 
apple presented with the understanding that it 
must be peeled. Baby, in order to distinguish 
himself, had slowly taken his handkerchief from 
his pocket and wrapped it about the end of the 
drumstick. He looked around him with an air 
of conscious virtue, and remarked : 

“ / never soil my napkin.” 

Faky Dillon forgot his good manners and 
laughed ; even Guy joined in the laughter in 
spite of himself. Aunt Mary, however, was of- 
fended. 

“ I am not so careful of my napkins, dear,” she 
said. “ I want them to be used. There’s plenty 
where they came from.” 

At this the boys laughed again — all except 
Guy, who would have consoled Baby Maguire if 
he could. But when Baby went into a corner and 


68 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


refused to return to the table, Aunt Mary said 
that the best cure for sulks was “ let alone.” 

Uncle Mike complimented the boys on their 
manners ; although Faky had forgotten them for 
a moment, and tried to bite a large crescent from 
his piece of lemon pie. Fortunately, J ack jogged 
his elbow in time ; and he dropped the pie to his 
plate, his eyes flashing fire. 

“ What are you punching me for ? ” he de- 
manded, in a whisper. He realized his position in 
a moment, and took to his fork. 

“Yes,” Thomas Jefferson said, modestly, in 
answer to Uncle Mike’s compliments, “we are 
taught — I mean teach ed — no, taught — a great 
many things. Mother scolds us often about our 
manners, and cook tells us things. Cook was 
born in one of the best families in Ireland, and 
she lived three weeks in Boston ; she knows 
things, and she keeps us up to the mark, you bet 
— I mean you may presume. When Rebecca 
came to us first, the cook took a great deal of 
trouble with her. Rebecca used to say ‘ Laws-a- 
mussy ! ’ in such a funny way. Cook wouldn’t 
hear of it; she said it was almost like swearing, 
and she made Rebecca say ‘ Law sakes ! ’” 

“ The cook,” said Aunt Mary, ^ is a knowledge- 
able woman. How, boys, amuse yourselves 
while I clean off the table.” 

Guy had so disposed the flowers in his window 
that they made almost a bower. 


A TALK. 


69 


“You can’t be lonely while you have flowers 
around you,” said Guy. “ They seem to me as if 
they could speak. Our priest told me the other 
day that he was glad I love flowers. He said 
that St. Mary Magdalene of Pazzi wrote that God 
especially loves those who love flowers.” 

“ They are pretty,” said Faky ; “ but you can’t 
get much fun out of them. I like things you can 
use. You ought to see the whistle made by the 
boy that lives out near the Park. He cut it out 
of a maple twig. I wonder if Professor Grigg’s 
school is in much of a country place? It’s 
awful to have to go away ; but I guess there’ll be 
some fun. I’ve read lots of books about board- 
ing-school, and the boys have great times. They 
put thistles and flour into other fellows’ beds.” 

Guy shuddered. 

“ It must be awful ! ” 

“ Ho : it’s fun,” said Faky. 

“ But suppose they put thistles and flour into 
your bed ? ” 

“ That’s different,” said Faky, promptly. “And, 
then, you toss boys in blankets until you almost 
squash them against the ceiling. It’s great ! ” 

“That was in ‘Tom Brown,”’ said Jack; 
“ but I don’t think they have so much fun at our 
American schools. Or if they do, they have to 
pay for it. There’s a fellow that was out at 
Notre Dame. He wrote to me all about the fun 
he had ‘ skiving,’ as they call it there. He got 


70 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


down the fire-escape, or some way, and went to 
town. It was great fun. He was up to his 
knees in mud ; and it was dark and rainy when 
he got there, and he caught cold. But when he 
went back and tried to sneak in, the prefect 
nabbed him, and he was sent home. And his 
father went on awful.” 

“ That wasn’t very funny,” said Guy. 

“No; but I think Professor Grigg will not be 
quite so strict. You can fool him. I am going 
to lead him a pretty dance, — I am ! ” said Faky, 
with a chuckle. 

“You’ll make a mistake, then,” said Jack, 
gravely. “Boys have enough trouble in this 
world without making more for themselves. 
Professor Grigg may make our life a burden, if 
he wants to,” he added, with a sigh ; “ and he 
may think we’re naturally bad, as most grown- 
up people do. If he does, I will not play tricks, 
— I’ll just run away.” 

“ And be sent back,” said Faky. 

“ Then I’ll go to sea,” said Jack. 

“ I guess you’ve never read ‘ Two Years before 
the Mast,’ or you wouldn’t say that,” said Faky. 
“ You’d better stay at school than run away to 
sea. The sea ain’t what it used to be. A fellow 
could stand some hardships in the olden time for 
the sake of popping into a pirate or two. But 
pirates are scarce now.” 

“A boy must learn to stand things,” Guy 


A TALK. 


71 


said. “ This talk about running away is silly, I 
think. If I had the use of my legs, I’d stand 
anything , — yes, I would. You don’t know how 
hard it is to hear you boys talk about sports 
and fun, and to feel that I must always be apart 
from you. It’s worse than being a girl,” added 
Guy, bitterly. 

“ Oh, no ! don’t say that ! ” said Faky. “ Girls 
have to sew and knit and play the piano, and 
wear combs in their hair, and have clean hands 
all the time.” 

“I can’t even help Uncle Mike,” continued 
Guy, with tears in his eyes. “ I feel better than 
I did; but I’d almost rather be a girl than a 
lame boy, because I could wash dishes and help 
Aunt Mary to cook. I don’t mind being lame, 
but I hate to be different from other boys.” 

Aunt Mary, who was approaching with a large, 
bright basin, in which Guy always washed his 
hands after dinner, heard these words. They 
came upon her with the force of a shock. He 
had always seemed like a baby to her. That he 
should want to leave her was very terrible. 

Guy saw by the expression of her face what 
troubled her. 

“ Aunt Mary,” he said, “ I want to go to school, 
that I may be a man some day. You know, a 
man’s only half a man without education.” 

“ I know it, child,” Aunt Mary said, quietly ; 
“and Uncle Mike and I are doing the best we 


72 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


can for you. Sure, it’s little we’ve been able to 
teach you, but I think we kept the good in you.” 

“ O Aunt Mary ! ” said Guy, tears coming into 
his eyes, “I never can thank you enough, — I 
never can love you enough. I want to be a 
man, so that I can help you and Uncle Mike; 
to be like other men when I grow up ; to be like 
other boys now. And I’ll be so lonely when the 
boys go away ! ” 

“We’ll write to you every week,” said Jack; 
“and Faky will write in poetry.” 

Guy’s face brightened a little. 

“ But when I hear of your skating and foot- 
ball, I’ll be so wretched.” 

“ No, you won’t,” said Faky, consolingly ; “ be- 
cause we’ll be more wretched than you are. 
We’ll put in only the bad things that happen to 
us. And if old Grigg is grumpy and jumps on 
us, we’ll tell you every time ; and then you’ll 
say : ‘ How glad I am that I can stay at home 
in this cozy room ! ’ Won’t we, Jack ? ” 

“ Of course,” said Jack, brightening. “ I’m 
almost glad we’re going to such a place, because 
it will make you feel glad to hear how old Grigg 
ill-treats us. Every time he puts me in jug I’ll 
be gay, because I’ll think how delighted dear old 
Guy will be when he hears it. I’m sure old 
Grigg’s school is a terrible place.” 

“ A regular den,” said Faky, zealously, as Bob 
Bently entered from below, where he had been 


A TALK. 


73 

engaged in helping Uncle Mike. “ It’s the kind 
of school where you have to break the ice in your 
basin every morning before you can wash your- 
self.” 

A groan came from Baby Maguire, who had 
forgotten his sulkiness in the interest of the con- 
versation. 

Bob chimed in : 

“Sole leather for breakfast, and no sugar in 
the coffee, and hash every day.” 

Another and a louder groan came from Baby 
Maguire. 

“ Oh, yes, we’ll have to stand it ! ” continued 
Bob, cheerfully. “ I can stand hash every day, 
but it will be hard to live on cabbage and pickled 
pigs’ feet most the year.” 

Guy shook his head. 

“ When I was littler,” he said, “ I didn’t care 
whether I was like other boys or not. People 
seemed to think that I’d go to heaven soon. But 
I’m stronger now ; and, as the chance of going 
to heaven is not so near, I must try to live. And 
if I have to live, I want to be like you and the 
other boys. You don’t know how hard it is to 
be pitied by people, who look at you and pity 
you, and then forget you. I don’t want to be 
great, or a hero, or anything else,” Guy exclaimed, 
his cheeks flushing ; “ but I want to help Uncle 
Mike. If I can’t help him, I’d like to go to 
school with you.” 


74 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Jack sighed, as he heard this. It was strange, 
indeed, that any human being should want to 
go to school. 

“ When you boys talk of football and skating, 
and having fun, and swimming, I just feel empty 
here,” Guy continued. “ It’s a feeling as if I 
were left out, you know.” 

“ I know,” said Bob, as he remembered a cer- 
tain party, “/know, Guy ; and it’s awful. You 
feel as if you hadn’t a friend in the world.” 

“ I have been praying that I could go to school 
with you,” said Guy* 

“You might have heard a pin drop,” Bob 
Bently said afterward. It was plain to the boys 
that poor little Guy had gone crazy. 

Before any of them had time to answer Guy’s 
astonishing announcement, Thomas Jelferson en- 
tered with a yellow envelope containing a tele- 
graphic message. 


THE DEPARTURE. 


75 


VII. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

Uncle Mike’s name was on the yellow en- 
velope ; but he, being busy, had sent it upstairs 
to his wife. She put on her spectacles before she 
opened it. A telegram to Aunt Mary meant, in 
her opinion, something terrible. It was true that 
she had neither relative nor friend outside of the 
small circle we already know ; but, nevertheless, 
a yellow envelope seemed always to contain bad 
news. 

“ Head it. I can’t ! ” Aunt Mary said, giving 
the telegram to Jack. 

Jack tore it open and read : 

“ Doctor writes that Guy is improving. Let 
him go to Professor Grigg’s school as soon as 
possible. Put him under care of Abbe Mirard. 

“ G. de Saint-Pierre.” 

The telegram had been sent from Paris. Aunt 
Mary read it herself. 

“ Well,” she said, with a sigh, “I suppose there 
is no help for it. But I’ll not send the child, in 
spite of all the Saint-Pierres in the world, if it is 
not a Catholic school.” 


76 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Oh, but it is ! ” said Baby Maguire. “ I know 
all about that. I was hoping that it wasn’t ; so 
that I wouldn’t have to go to confession, except 
when I came home for vacation. But Aunt 
Chumleigli told me different. Father Mirard 
teaches catechism, and it’s an awfully religious 
school.” 

Baby had spoken very frankly; and Aunt 
Mary was shocked, because she had always be- 
lieved that he was a very pious little boy. 

“ Oh, yes,” Jack chimed in, “it’s all right that 
way ! Father and mother wouldn’t let us go if 
it wasn’t.” 

“ Dear ! dear ! ” said Aunt Mary, tears coming 
into her eyes. “ The house will be so lonely ! 
And I hope they’ll see that Guy’s flannels are 
regularly changed. Will you, Jack, promise to 
see that he has his red on in December, January, 
and February, and his white in April ? ” 

“ All right ! ” said Jack. 

“ And I’ll put his medicine chest in your care. 
No matter what the doctor at the school may say, 
he’s to have his little pills regular, Jack.” 

“ All right ! ” said Jack, recklessly. 

“ Am I really to go ? ” Guy asked, his cheeks 
growing paler. “ Beally ? ” 

“ I am afraid so,” answered Aunt Mary. 
“Your clothes are all ready. I’ll have to get 
you some new handkerchiefs, though. I suppose 
that Mrs. Grigg will go mousing about among 


THE DEPARTURE. 


77 

your things and making remarks. I think I’ll 
have to get you some new stockings ; for I am 
not going to have any schoolmistress going about 
and saying that I sent you away with darned 
stockings.” 

“ Why, we’ve all got darned stockings ! ” said 
Bob. “ Nobody minds that.” 

Aunt Mary kissed Guy and hastily left the 
room. She went half-way down the stairs, and 
sat on the step there and cried. 

Coming up, Uncle Mike found her there. In 
a low voice she told him of the cable message. 

“ ’Tis hard to part with the child,” Uncle Mike 
said. “ Faith, he’s been an angel in the house. 
But it’s better that he should go away and get 
strong than die, isn’t it ? The reason his relative 
left him with us was that he expected him to die, 
and this was his only home. As it is, Mary, the 
poor boy will have to be educated like a gentle- 
man, and neither you nor me is fitted to do 
that.” 

Aunt Mary sighed. 

“He’ll come back strong and hearty,” con- 
tinued Uncle Mike. 

Aunt Mary shook her head. 

“ But I won’t, have the care of him : ’twill be 
that Mrs. Grigg that will have done it all.” 

“What difference,” said Uncle Mike, cheer- 
fully, “ when he comes home rosy and light- 
hearted, and maybe able to walk ? ” 


78 


JACK CHTJMLEIGH. 


“ He’ll be such a fine gentleman that he’ll be 
ashamed of us.” 

‘‘Hot he,” said Uncle Mike. “There’s not a 
mean drop in him. I’m sure that, in spite of his 
geometry and geography, he’ll be just as ready 
to sell mackerel with me in the shop as the boys 
there beyant. Come up and see the boy, Mary. 
Don’t be moping here. We’ll make him go away 
with a cheerful heart ; for life’s sad enough as it 
is.” 

Aunt Mary was divided between conflicting 
emotions. Of course she was glad that Guy had 
a good chance of living, — and he must have if the 
doctor said so. She would have preferred that 
her doctor had said so ; for she believed in 
homeopathy, and always carried little pills with 
her, in case of emergency. But, still, she held 
that this doctor knew something, since Mr. 
Chumleigh had sent him. She was already jeal- 
ous of the unknown Mrs. Grigg; and, then, she 
felt a deep pang at the loss of the little cripple. 
Yet it must be admitted that she did not love 
him so much, now that he was stronger, as when 
he was weak and helpless. She loved him deeply, 
of course ; but she loved the other little Guy, 
wan and hollow-eyed, more. 

At the same time she was a sensible woman. 
She saw, with Uncle Mike, that Guy must have 
his chance ; and she went busily to work to help 
to give it to him. Being a religious woman, duty 


THE DEPASTURE. 


79 


was duty. It was her duty to do what the Count 
de Saint-Pierre asked her to do ; it was her duty 
to make Guy’s going away as cheerful as pos- 
sible. 

The boys all crowded upstairs when they heard 
that Guy was going to school. He sat by the 
window, in his bower of lilies, with flushed 
cheeks and bright eyes, listening to the chatter 
about him. To the lonely boy all this gleeful 
noise was delightful. 

“ Aunt Mary,” he said, “ I will think of you 
every single day, and write to you every week.” 

“See that you do,” replied Aunt Mary, turn- 
ing her head away, to examine an array of shirt 
waists she had before her. “ It will not be long 
till June, Guy,” she added, remembering Uncle 
Mike’s speech about cheerfulness; “then we’ll 
all be happy together.” 

Guy’s face brightened. 

“ You’ll not miss me much, Aunt Mary,” he 
went on. “ You have Uncle Mike. And we’ll 
all be so happy in June! And I will know so 
much then ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

Aunt Mary turned away again, and a tear 
trembled on one of the shirt waists. 

Guy’s excitement grew as the day wore on. 
lie was to travel ; he was to eat in the dining- 
car, and perhaps sleep all night on wheels ! The 
boys, forgetting their own fears for the future, 


80 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


began to describe the delights of a journey by 
rail. 

“ I was to Chicago twice,” said Bob Bently ; 
“ and I know something about traveling.” 

There was silence. Jack had been to New 
York once and to Atlantic City three times. 
Baby Maguire had traveled from Kennett 
Square. Thomas Jefferson had made the At- 
lantic City trip. And Faky Dillon had gone as 
far as Trenton ; but, as he had a vivid imagina- 
tion, it seemed when he talked as if he had gone 
around the world. 

“ When will Guy go ? ” Bob asked. “ He can’t 
go with us ; for we’re all ready to start to-night, 
and traveling in a sleeper might not be good for 
him.” 

“He’ll go to-morrow or next day,” said Aunt 
Mary. “ And Uncle Mike will go with him. 
I’ve crossed the ocean once, and there’ll be no 
more traveling for me till I’m carried to the 
grave.” 

“ It would be nice if we could wait for him,” 
said Baby Maguire. 

“ Oh, but we can’t I ” answered Thomas Jeffer- 
son, promptly. 

“No, we can’t,” said Bob, with a long-drawn 
sigh. “If Guy travels in the daytime, I can tell 
him how he can save money. The last time I 
went to Chicago in the summer with father, he 
gave me three dollars and a half. That was 


THE DEPARTURE. 


81 


enough for three meals, and I had to have some- 
thing for the porter. They charge a dollar for 
each meal in the dining-car, you know.” 

Aunt Mary stopped in the process of threading 
her needle. 

“ Is it telling the truth you are ? ” 

“ I’ll cross my breath,” replied Bob, promptly. 

“ A dollar for breakfast ! The deceiving vil- 
lains ! ” said Aunt Mary, with intense indigna- 
tion. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered Bob. 

Guy was all attention. In time this strange, 
new world might be all his own. 

“ Go on, Bob ! ” he said. 

“I just made up my mind that I’d save my 
money. So I gave the porter ten cents in ad- 
vance ; and when father went into the dining- 
car I said : 4 Oh, no, — they don’t catch me ! Oh, 
no ! ’ I had coffee and pork and beans at a 
station for twenty cents. That left me three 
dollars and twenty cents. See ? ” 

Aunt Mary looked at Bob approvingly ; she 
liked thrift. 

“ You’ll be a great man yet,” she said. 

“When noontime came,” Bob went on, amid 
silence broken only by a chuckle from Faky 
Dillon, “ I dropped off (it was later than noon : 
about one o’clock), and got a cup of coffee and a 
piece of pie, — fifteen cents. That left me three 
dollars and five cents. See ? ” 


82 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Aunt Mary was delighted. 

“ ’Tis riding in your own carriage you’ll be yet.” 

“Well, didn’t I serve the dining-car people 
right ? ” asked Bob. 

“ You did ! you did ! ” said Aunt Mary. 

Faky Dillon chuckled. Bob’s cheeks reddened, 
and he threw threatening glances at him ; but 
Faky still chuckled. 

“ And tell Aunt Mary how much money you 
took home,” he said. 

“ I’m sure you did well,” she said ; “ and your 
father must have been pleased with you. I’ll 
tell Uncle Mike — ’twill be a lesson to him, — and 
’tis the biggest apple in the shop he’ll give you.” 

Faky broke out into laughter. 

“ Tell the rest of the story, Bob. I heard your 
father tell my father all about it.” 

“ Ah ! you hold your tongue ! ” whispered 
Bob. “ I’ll punch ” 

“It was after they left Buffalo,” Faky broke 
in, “ that Bob began to feel really hungry. He 
tried chewing-gum, but his father made him 
throw twenty cents’ worth of Tutti Frutti out 
the car window.” 

Thomas Jefferson groaned. 

“ Who picked it up, Faky ? ” asked Baby Ma- 
guire. 

“ A goat, of course. Chewing-gum and tomato 
cans together is what goats like,” said Faky, 
rapidly. “ Then he got hungrier and hungrier.” 


THE DEPARTURE. 


83 


“ You stop, Faky ! ” growled Bob. 

“He bought two boxes of caramels, three 
boxes of figs, Puck — just to take his mind from 
his stomach, — a lot of apples and pears, two pa- 
pers of lemon drops, a glass pistol full of candy, 
some salted popcorn, four oranges ” 

“ Three ! ” said Bob, frowning. 

“Three oranges, half-a-dozen bananas, and 
three more boxes of caramels. Then he had a 
dollar left. See?” 

Aunt Mary raised her eyes and looked severely 
at Bob. Guy was shocked at such extravagance. 

“ Anyhow, you saved a dollar.” 

“ I had a dollar and fifteen cents left,” growled 
Bob. “ You stop, Faky Dillon ! ” 

“And then, when they got past Cleveland, 
there was a wreck ahead, and they had to wait 
a while; so Bob went over to an apple or- 
chard ” 

“ The farmer said we might help ourselves, if 
each gave him ten cents.” 

“ And Bob ” — Faky went into a series of loud 
chuckles, in which everybody, except Aunt Mary 
and Bob, joined from mere sympathy, — “and 
Bob climbed a knotty tree. And the whistle 
blew before he expected ; for his father says he 
was so hungry that he sat on a bough eating ap- 
ples and couldn’t wait till he got down. And 
Bob tried to slide down, but his trousers caught 
in the knobs on the tree. And he ran, caught 


84 


JACK CHUMLEIG1I. 


the train, and the porter had to take him into 
the stateroom, to sew him up. He was all in 
rags. And the porter charged him a dollar.” 

“ The deceiving wretch ! the deluder ! ” said 
Aunt Mary. “ A dollar for putting a few stitches 
in a boy’s trousers ! ” 

“ But I was all torn up,” said Bob, gloomily ; 
“ and it was worth a dollar : he sewed for tAvo 
hours.” 

“ I’ll wager,” she said, contemptuously, “ that 
he hadn’t even a thimble on, and him charging 
a dollar ! Some of them colored people do beat 
the Dutch ! ” 

“I’ll settle you!” Bob Avhispered to Faky, 
who merely murmured : 

“ He thought he could travel all day, 

So he saved up his pence, 

And called it immense. 

But, for all, his hard cash got away ! ” 


The argument was closed by Uncle Mike’s an- 
nouncement that the time was up : the boys 
must go. 

Two hours later Mr. and Mrs. Chumleigh, Avith 
the Dillons and Bentlys, stood at the gate of the 
Pennsylvania Bailroad station. The boys had 
gone. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Chumleigh, “it almost 
breaks my heart ; but those boys of ours will be 
out of the kitchen, anyhow.” 


THE DEPARTURE. 


85 


“ It’s a mercy,” said the cook, aloud, to herself, 
as she watched the clock, “ that they’re off. It’s 
meself that finds it hard to associate with idjuts 
and sows’ ears that you can’t make silk purses 
of.” 

Susan bowed her head ; and Rebecca, af- 
frighted, exclaimed : 

“ Laws-a-mussy ! ” 

“ And me doing me best to teach them,” added 
the cook, bitterly, to the clock, — “And me doing 
me best ! Well, ’tis said that a man never makes 
any profit in his own country. But those angels 
are gone ; and I hope their high-flown education 
won’t make ’em bad and bold, like some of their 
elders, — I name no names,” she added. 


86 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


VIII. 

THEY ARRIVE. 

The boys were accompanied by Mr. Dillon, 
who had his berth made up, and who went to 
bed at once. The porter was inclined to look 
with doubt on the mysterious packages which 
were the property of the boys, whose berths 
were all lower ones at the end of the car opposite 
to Mr. Dillon’s. Mr. Dillon was an amiable, 
“ easy-going ” man, who believed in giving boys 
enough to eat, and then letting them alone. 

The cook had supplied each of her friends with 
a large package ; and other friends had not been 
backward in helping to provide them with de- 
fences against hunger, should they be attacked 
during the night. The porter’s language had 
been so rude, as he passed them and looked at 
their bundles, that Baby Maguire and Faky 
Dillon had hastened to put the more perishable 
articles in the lower berth. 

“We can double up, you know,” Faky said to 
Thomas Jefferson; “and that will leave a berth 
vacant.” 

“How?” asked Thomas Jefferson. 

“ Why, you see, father took a berth for me, 


THEY ARRIVE. 


87 


and there’s a berth for Baby and a berth for Bob 
Bently ; but Jack and you were to stay together. 
Now, we can put the pies and things in Bob’s 
berth, and he and I can take the upper berth. 
That will leave one vacant, — don’t you see ? 
And when everybody is asleep, we can all get up 
and have a jolly picnic. 

“ If the pangs of hunger should come/’ 

added Faky dropping into poetry, 

“ We’ll soon be tight as a drum.” 


Faky’s ingenuity was much admired by all the 
boys. 

The car was without passengers as yet ; though 
the porter said he expected that a large number 
of people would come on at Germantown, as 
there had been a meeting of Quakers there ; and 
this was an extra car, nearly all reserved. Five 
custard pies, a large jelly cake, and a bag of 
cream puffs were laid lovingly under the cover- 
let in the lower berth. Faky thought it best to 
take off the wrappers and hide them in this man- 
ner ; for the porter seemed to be a very inquisi- 
tive fellow. 

When he came around again, he noticed that 
the greasy -looking bundles had disappeared. 
The crumbs of cookies adorned Baby Maguire’s 
chin. 


88 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Eat all the stuff you had ? ” the porter asked, 
smiling. “ That’s right ! Glad to get that sort 
of stuff out of the way. It soils my car.” 

The boys were not sad at all. When the train 
started, even Baby Maguire had a momentary 
pang of homesickness. But the novelty of 
traveling, even in a hot and stuffy sleeping-car, 
was pleasant. And, then, there was the prospect 
of the midnight orgy. 

At Germantown a group of Quakers and 
Quakeresses entered. The boys were all fond of 
the dove-colored garb, associated in their minds 
with ways of contentment and pleasantness. 
Baby Maguire’s grand-aunt was a Quakeress, and 
she lived at Kennett Square ; and when she came 
to town she was exceedingly amiable to all his 
“crowd.” 

The boys hastened at once to make themselves 
useful. 

“ Thank thee,” said a cheerful-looking old 
Quaker woman, whose boxes and bags Faky 
helped to arrange so that they would not fall 
when the car moved. “ Thee is a good boy. 
Thee has been well brought up, — I can see that. 
Thee will live a godly life when thee grows up.” 

“Kind of,” said Faky, not meaning to be 
irreverent, — “ I hope. I mean to be a kind of 
good man.” 

“ Thee talks well,” said the old lady in the big 
dove-colored bonnet. “ What will thee be when 


THEY ARRIVE. 


89 


thee grows up ? ” And she gave him a handful 
of cardamom seeds. 

“ I used to think that I should like to be a 
pirate,” Fakysaid; “ there is nothing in the ex- 
amination of conscience against it. But people 
don’t seem to look on it as a respectable business. 
I should, of course, kill only pagans and other 
pirates. I shouldn’t want to do anything that 
would not be quite right. But since I am to be 
educated up to the top notch, I rather think I’ll 
be a circus rider or a poet. If you’re a circus 
rider, you have to know enough to write out the 
big posters. You have to punctuate, you know ; 
and to be able to drop into poetry now and then 
would be a help. Don’t you think so ? ” 

The old lady cast an almost terrified look at 
Faky. 

“Thee must banish such temptations,” she 
said. “Thee must strive hard against circus 
riding ; and I do not know of any poet, except 
Milton, who was quite respectable. Thee has 
heard of Milton ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” Faky said. “ Miss McBride read 
bits of his. There wasn’t much in them. No 
snap. They wouldn’t do on circus posters.” 

The old gentlewoman sighed and shook her 
head. Having tucked her luggage in its place 
again, Faky made his best bow — his heart always 
went out to old ladies, — and joined the other 
boys, who were in the small apartment devoted 


90 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


to smokers. They did not smoke. They had 
given their word of honor that there should be 
no smoking of cigarettes while at school, and 
that was enough. With all their faults, these 
boys looked on the breaking of such a promise 
as an impossibility. 

“ It would be nice to have a cigarette now,” 
said Bob Bently. “ A fellow would feel so 
manly.” 

“You wouldn’t feel very manly when you re- 
membered that you’d broken a promise to your 
father,” replied Thomas Jefferson. “I wouldn’t 
mind having one myself just now. And if father 
and mother were always sneaking and looking 
at me on the sly, I’d smoke, — I believe I would ; 
but when they just take your word for it, you’re 
gone ! ” 

“ Smoking is bad,” said Jack. “ Look at Skinny 
McMullen. He smokes twenty cigarettes a day, 
and he inhales the smoke, and he’s just copper- 
colored. His mother has a cousin who is a Con- 
gressman, and he intended to send Skinny to 
West Point. But the doctor says Skinny will 
never pass the physical examination ; he has car- 
buncles on his lungs alread}^. He can’t play foot- 
ball, you know ; — he has no wind. When I see 
Skinny getting yellower every day, I’m glad I 
promised. There is no use in smoking cigarettes 
if you don’t inhale, and that kills you.” 

“ Well, we promised, anyhow ; and that settles 


THEY ARRIVE. 


91 


it,” said Bob, with a sigh. a 0 Jack, I don’t 
really know how I shall stand it at school! 
When I think of all our family about the table 
to-night and only me away, — it’s hard.” 

“And father and mother wishing we were 
back !” said Thomas Jefferson. “And the cook 
and Susan ! And Miss McBride holding us up as 
shining examples to the boys that didn’t know us ! ” 

“ It’s hard ! ” said Faky. “ I didn’t feel it so 
much when everybody was shaking hands and 
kissing us, and telling us not to tear our clothes, 
and to get a hundred in arithmetic and geography, 
and to remember our advantages.” 

“ I shall have to go home,” said Baby. 

Faky sniffled; Thomas Jefferson screwed up 
his face, to prevent two large tears from rolling 
down his cheeks, — but they rolled down in spite 
of his efforts. Jack and Bob looked gloomily out 
the window into the darkness. 

After a long silence, Jack proposed that they 
should go to bed, and suggested that he should 
awaken everybody in two hours. A little sleep 
would be refreshing and exhilarating for the 
feast. 

In rather a melancholy mood, the boys said 
their prayers and took possession of the berths. 
Faky and Bob Bently climbed to the one over 
the board of delicacies — in this case, probably 
best expressed by the German word deWcalessen , 
— and Baby Maguire had the lower berth oppo- 


92 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


site. There was a moment of horrible suspense 
when the porter poked his head into lower berth 
14 and drew it out again. As the delikatessen 
were under the blanket, he concluded, of course, 
that the berth was empty. 

“ Why don’t you stay in your own berth ? ” he 
asked of Faky Dillon, who was watching him 
from the parting in the curtains above. 

“We want to talk,” said Faky. 

As soon as the porter had gone, they felt that 
the worst was over. The. boys did not undress. 
They were not sure whether it was the custom 
on this particular railway or not; and, besides, 
they wanted to be ready to arise the instant Jack 
gave the signal. 

Jack awoke with a hazy impression that he had 
heard somebody say “ Harrisburg ! ” a long time 
ago. There was a great bustle near him, and the 
end of a bag carried through the car pumped his 
elbow. 

“ Grigg ! Grigg ! — that is the name, porter. I 
am astounded that there is no berth reserved for 
me. The station-master at Harrisburg said he’d 
telegraph.” 

“ Lower berths all filled, sah,” said the porter. 
“ Perhaps he got you a berth on another car. 
This one is a special, put on for the Quaker meet- 
ing. I can give you Ho. 14, — there is nobody in 
it. The boy that has it has gone above with his 
friend. Will that do ? ” 


THEY ARRIVE. 


93 


“ Admirably ! ” said the soft, round voice. 
“ Here are my tickets. I get off at Greenlawn. 
Give me plenty of time to dress.” 

Jack, Thomas Jefferson, Bob Bently, Faky and 
Baby Maguire, who were wide awake now and 
peering through the curtains, saw a piece of silver 
change hands. 

The porter went away, and the tall figure of 
the man named Grigg sat on the side of the berth 
and began to undress. His collar and cuffs 
clicked against the woodwork as he threw them 
on the brackets in the berth. That click seemed 
like a note of doom to the boys. They said 
nothing; even Faky’s ingenuity was paralyzed. 
Thomas Jefferson could only say, in a hollow 
whisper : 

“ Maybe it is Professor Grigg.” 

As the Grigg legs, which had hitherto pro- 
truded from between the curtains, were drawn 
inward, Thomas Jefferson moaned : 

“ Why doesn’t somebody tell him ? ” 

But a simultaneous chuckle burst from the 
three berths when a muffled sound — described by 
Faky as “ squashing ” — was heard from berth No. 
14, followed by low and discontented murmurs. 
The berths shook with suppressed laughter. 

“ If somebody doesn’t do something, he’ll find 
us out,” whispered Jack. 

The curtains of Baby Maguire’s berth opened, 
and out stepped Baby. He looked very inno- 


94 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


cent ; though his big white collar, in which he 
had slept, was somewhat creased. 

“ Are you sick, sir ? ” asked Baby, sweetly. 
“ I thought I heard you groan.” 

“ Sick ! ” said the muffled voice. “ No, but I 
have fallen into some very slimy and unpleasant 
substances. Something is the matter with the 
electric bell here. Will you please call the 
porter ? ” 

“ He’s asleep,” said Baby, promptly. “ I hope 
that thoughtless boy didn’t leave his alligators in 
that berth.” 

“What boy? What alligators?” cried the 
voice within. And Mr. Grigg emerged very sud- 
denly from the interior. 

“ There was a boy who had a lot of alligators 
he was bringing from New Orleans — but, oh ! I 
see : you’ve been sleeping among the pies, which 
some foolish boys put in that berth. I saw them 
do it. Just you go to the washroom; and you 
can take my berth, just opposite. I’ll look after 
the pies. It won’t hurt you : it’s only custard 
pie.” 

“ My name is Mr. Grigg, of Colonnade House,” 
said Professor Grigg ; “ and I am much obliged 
to you. I shall lecture in Greenlawn to-night on 
‘ The Language of the Accadians and the Scyth- 
ians.’ I will take the opposite berth, after I have 
washed. I will ascertain the names of these fool- 
ish and wicked boys from the conductor, and re- 


THEY ARRIVE. 


95 


port them to the proper authorities. What is 
your name ? ” 

“ Maguire,’’ said Baby, sweetly. “ I will put 
your things into the opposite berth, while you 
wash. I’ll easily find half a berth with a friend.” 

“You are a good little boy,” said Professor 
Grigg, warmly. “And I will leave with the 
porter tickets for yourself and your friend for 
my lecture to-morrow.” 

In a short time after this Professor Grigg was 
sound asleep in Baby’s berth, while the boys were 
very busy trying to get rid of the damaged pies, 
which were finally thrown from the window of 
the smoking-car. 

About seven o’clock in the morning the porter 
suddenly awakened them. 

“ Coming to Colonnade Station,” he said. 

Mr. Dillon was waiting for them. The porter 
gave him two tickets for “ Master Maguire.” 
They were green and they announced that Pro- 
fessor Grigg would “ lecture on 4 The Language 
of the Accadians and the Scythians,’ at eight 
o’clock p. M., in the Academy of Music at Green- 
lawn. Admit two.” 

44 Baby is in luck and we are not,” said Jack, 
gloomily. 

44 Colonnade Station ! ” called out the conductor. 

They had arrived. 


96 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


IX. 

PROPHECIES. 

A carriage was waiting at the railroad sta- 
tion, — a very queer carriage, with flapping can- 
vas sides and a lopsided air. Just then it was 
liberally sprinkled with dried mud. 

“For Colonnade House?” the driver asked. 
He was a colored man, who showed his teeth and 
looked good-natured. 

The boys were glad to get out of the warm air 
of the car, and the novelty of the landscape in- 
terested them. It was flat, — not a hill was to be 
seen anywhere. On each side of the road were 
fields of dried cornstalks, among which great yel- 
low pumpkins glowed. The wind blew fresh and 
cool ; and as the boys jumped into the carriage 
they all felt for a moment as if life, even at 
school, might be a very good thing. 

But this did not last long. The unfamiliarity 
of the landscape brought to Jack a sense of deso- 
lation. The pumpkins gave the fields an air of 
savagery which he did not like. Pumpkins in 
front of green-grocers’ shops were familiar sights 
to him, but pumpkins sprawling about among 
yellow corn seemed barbarics and out of place. 


PROPHECIES. 


97 


Jack thought of the sunlight on the red bricks of 
the houses of his beloved city, and sighed. About 
this time the house at home was very bright, and 
the scent of cotfee permeated it; and Jack felt 
sad as he thought of it. As he looked back, even 
his struggle with Ancient History and his hard- 
ships at Miss McBride’s school seemed rosy and 
pleasant. Jack was not fond of the country ; he 
knew nothing of the pleasures of country boys ; 
and he amused the driver by asking, as they went 
along, whether certain green things in a field 
were not potatoes. 

“ Oh, golly ! ” said the driver, “ he don’t know 
termartes when he sees ’em ! ” 

At this Thomas Jefferson and Faky laughed at 
Jack, just as if they knew any better themselves. 

Mr. Dillon sat on the back seat, chewing the 
end of his morning cigar, and really enjoying the 
fresh smell of the country. 

“ Ah, Tancred ! ” he said to Faky, “ you do not 
know how greatly you are favored to live in this 
clear atmosphere. You will soon become fat and 
weigh a hundred and eighty.” 

Faky looked up hopefully. 

“ Do you think so, papa ? If I could get up 
my weight by next Thanksgiving, I’d be a great 
half-back, wouldn’t I ? ” 

“ I was not thinking of that,” said Mr. Dillon. 
“ I am not sure that I approve of football. Well, 
boys, you will soon be at the scene of your stud- 


98 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


ies. Now life begins. You will have to qualify 
yourselves for the work of life. You must look 
forward to earning your living.” 

“ A boy doesn’t need much,” remarked Thomas 
Jefferson. “ If I could shoot a squirrel or two 
every day, or have a few goats, I think I’d be 
content without going to school. If a boy has to 
go to school just to earn his own living, I think 
it is all nonsense. You can earn your living with- 
out going to school.” 

“ But you cannot be respected in the world,” 
replied Mr. Dillon; “and without an education 
you will always be last in the race of life. I 
hope, Tancred, that while at Professor Grigg’s 
you will think somewhat of the choice of an oc- 
cupation. When you write to me let me know 
the result of your reflections. I shall make any 
sacrifice to put you into a desirable position in 
life.” 

“ Thank you, papa,” said Faky, much pleased. 
He was sure that, after this promise, his father 
could not refuse to buy him a large schooner, or 
perhaps a brig, on which he could fly the black 
flag in a highly respectable manner. 

The carriage drove rapidly through the flat 
country. Overhead was the bluest of blue skies ; 
around, the cornfields wet with due, and sprinkled 
with the pumpkins, which lay with their heavy 
heads on the ground, like boys lolling over their 
desks. Here and there was a house of wood, 


PROPHECIES. 


99 


painted brown or yellow, with an occasional red 
barn. 

The carriage turned into a line between two 
hedges of osage-orange, which soon gave place to 
rail fences. The boys were dazzled by the sight 
of a great mass of marsh-marigolds, which seemed 
to stretch for half a mile. Another turn was 
made, and a line of cedars came in view on one 
side of the road. Behind these stretched a grove 
of tall oaks ; and when these were passed, a gilded 
cross became visible. 

“ What church is that ? ” asked Mr. Dillon. 

“ The Catholic church,” said the driver. “ St. 
Francis’ Church. That’s where Father Mirard 
is, and he’s a mighty good man. I ain’t a Cath- 
olic myself,” he went on, showing his white teeth 
as usual ; “ but he keeps me straight. ‘ Tom,’ sez 
he to me, ‘ whenever you feel like doing anything 
wrong, you jest come to me and talk it over. 
You know I’m safe.’ ” 

Tom grinned so wide that the boys all grinned 
too, out of sympathy. 

“ Catholics go to confession after they’ve com- 
mitted sin,” said Tom ; “ but Father Mirard wants 
me to go before. And I know,” he continued, 
seriously, “that he can see without looking. I 
used to be awful. In the watermelon season, and 
dark nights when you couldn’t see your hand in 
the chicken yard, why, I was there. I say, boys, 
if you are going to the Colonnade School, you’ll 


100 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


have to walk a chalk line ; for Father Mirard can 
see right through you. He ain’t sassy ; he just 
smiles serious like, and then you know he’s found 
you out. He can look straight through you. I 
jest go and tell him things ; for he knows ’em, 
anyhow. There’s Colonnade ! ” 

All the eyes in the carriage followed the direc- 
tion of Tom’s whip. They saw twenty or twenty - 
five houses, bright and new ; all of wood, with 
porches and gables, and one or two with funny- 
looking little towers on them. Beyond was a 
white building, with a long row of columns hold- 
ing up the roof of the porch. In front of it was 
a smooth lawn, dotted with fine maple- trees, 
which stretched to the river. From its red roof 
floated an American flag, the sight of which sent 
a pang through Jack’s breast, because it reminded 
him of the lost freedom of his last Fourth of 
July. 

“ This is the village of Colonnade,” said Tom ; 
“ and that is Colonnade House. Professor Grigg 
is not at home; he went off to Hew York ten 
days ago. He lectures at Greenlawn to-night. 
He’s a boss talker, Professor Grigg is. I suppose 
he’ll be back to-morrow.” 

The boys, except Jack, whose homesickness 
was coming back, began to be hungry ; but they 
forgot this in the desire to see the village, which 
consisted of one street. There was a confection- 
er’s, a “ saloon,” where “ domestic wines and liq- 


PROPHECIES. 


101 


uors ” were sold ; a barber’s shop — “ Shackstein, 
Artist in Haircutting,” — and a few other shops. 
Altogether, the aspect of the place was not very 
promising to these city-bred boys. 

“Oh, dear !” sighed Jack. “It will be like 
prison in this place. When a boy gets out, there 
will be no place to go.” 

The driver laughed. 

“ You won’t get out very often,” he said. “ But 
if you like apples or grapes, there are a great 
many places to go. And chestnuts a little later. 
And over there is the best hickory grove in the 
country.” 

Thomas Jefferson and Baby Maguire and Bob 
Bently craned their necks. Jack, who was at 
heart a city boy, did not care for these things. 

“ You can buy nuts and apples and grapes,” he 
said, “ at any street corner ; it is not worth while 
coming all the way out here for them.” 

“ I suppose that there will never be a matinee ; 
and a circus never comes out here, does it?” 
asked Faky. 

“We have a circus over at Green lawn every 
spring,” said Tom, with pride. “We had Bar- 
num’s twice ! ” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” said Faky. “ It’s a long time to 
wait. I suppose nobody plays Rugby at this 
school ; old-fashioned hand-ball goes here, I 
guess.” 

The driver looked offended. 


102 


JACK CHTJMLEIGII. 


“ The Colonnade boys play everything ,” he an- 
swered. “ And they have plays of their own : 
they don’t need to go out to see circuses all the 
time. You ought to see the last play they had. 
There was thunder and lightning and red light, 
and four people all dead on the stage at once ! ” 

“ That must have been great” said Faky Dil- 
lon, interested. “ I wonder if they’ll give me a 
chance of acting ? ” 

“ I guess not,” said Tom, with an air of supe- 
riority. “ You’d have to go in training. I know 
a boy who had to yell and screech and throw his 
arms about a whole year before they’d let him 
play.” 

“ I guess they don’t know much about theatres 
out here in the country,” said Faky, secretly 
abashed by Tom’s position. “ I’d act Hamlet, if 
they asked me ; but I’d have to have scenery. I 
intend to write a play of my own some day.” 

Tom did not seem much impressed by this. 
Mr. Dillon began to ask questions about trains, 
and Tom did not deign to notice the boys ; he 
believed it to be his duty to impress new boys. 
Faky was impressed ; and after a while, when the 
carriage drew up before the archway in front of 
Colonnade House, he slipped a quarter into Tom’s 
hand, — a tribute which Tom received with be- 
coming dignity. 

Over the archway was painted, in big white 
letters, “Colonnade House.” The sight of it 


PROPHECIES. 


103 


made Baby Maguire remember his nerves and 
Jack’s heart sink. Faky saw the emblem of their 
future seclusion with more calmness. He was 
fond of the theatre, and he looked forward with 
interest to the pleasant task of criticising the 
playing of the Colonnade House boys. 

Jack sighed ; his grief was too deep for words. 
Again he wished that he was back in his room, 
even if the Ancient History were his only com- 
panion. 

Tom drove off, having assured Mr. Dillon that 
he would see him safely to the train he wanted ; 
and the visitors were met at the hall-door by a 
white-haired priest, with bright eyes and a ruddy 
complexion, which made his hair seem even 
whiter. He wore his cassock and beretta; the 
only strange thing the boys saw about him was 
his slippers, with silver buckles on them. He 
stretched out his hand cordially to Mr. Dillon, 
and said, with a strongly marked French accent : 

“Welcome to the house of my friend, Mr. 
Grigg ! And the good boys ! I am sure they 
are good boys. They are welcome, too. I am 
charmed to see them. Will you come to break- 
fast at once, Mr. Dillon, or would you like to go 
to your room with the young gentlemen ? ” 

“ He’s not half bad,” whispered Baby Maguire 
to Thomas Jefferson. “He looks as if he knew 
something.” 

Mr. Dillon assured the Abbe Mirard that he 


104 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


and the boys had made their toilette on the cars ; 
this was eagerly corroborated by Faky, who felt 
that if breakfast were delayed much longer he 
must begin to eat somebody. 

Smilingly, Father Mirard led the way through 
the long tiled hall to a room on the left ; it was 
very bright and neat, with white curtains and a 
great many red geraniums at the windows. 
There were red rugs on the floor, and the table 
glittered with silver and china. A large bunch 
of scarlet sage was set in a silver vase in the cen- 
tre of the table ; and, as the room was filled with 
sunshine and the aroma of coffee and beefsteak, 
the boys felt that life was not entirely gloomy. 

“ I am obliged to take the place of both the 
host and the hostess,” observed Father Mirard, 
after he had said grace. “ The professor is away, 
and mftadame presides at this hour in the refectory 
of the senior boys. She will return in a short 
time.” 

“ It is not so bad, after all,” Bob Bently said, 
as a servant brought in the steak and other aro- 
matic breakfast things. 

“ Just you wait ! ” said Jack, gloomily. 


THE SCHOOL. 


105 


X. 

THE SCHOOL. 

After breakfast Mr. Dillon and the boys were 
taken over the grounds of Colonnade House. Mr. 
Dillon was pleased with all he saw. The boys 
examined the tennis-courts and the campus crit- 
ically. Even Jack had no fault to find. The 
place was very quiet : one would never believe 
that sixty boys, of various ages, were enclosed in 
Colonnade House. 

Father Mirard impressed the boys favorably. 
He seemed to know all about games, but it was 
evident that he was not fond of football. Bob 
Bently and he plunged at once into an argument. 

“It is savage,” said Father Mirard. “It is a 
survival of the fighting instinct in the Saxon race. 
The English games are all rough.” 

“ But baseball isn’t an English game, Father,” 
said Bob. 

“It might be an English game,” replied Father 
Mirard. “ It’s rough enough.” 

“ Why,” said Faky Dillon, “ if you have a mask 
and good gloves, you can’t be hurt. Of course, 
if you go catching balls with your bare hands, 
you may break a finger or so ; but you have no 
business to play that way.” 


106 


JACK CHTJMLEIGH. 


“ Back before the war,” Mr. Dillon said, “ the 
baseballs were not so hard. I don’t think they 
put so much lead in them.” 

“ They had to use the lead for bullets in the 
war,” said Faky. “We’ve got more lead to spare 
now. And, you know, baseball is a more scien- 
tific game than it was then, papa,” he added, 
with quite an air of superiority. 

Mr. Dillon smiled. 

“You break more thumbs now. But I am like 
Father Mirard : I don’t care for games which 
must be played in armor. You may as well start 
to fight in tournaments, like the knights in 
‘ Ivanhoe.’ ” 

“Football is a bloodthirsty game; the boys 
never play it in France,” said Father Mirard. 

“ They don’t ! ” exclaimed Bob Bently, in 
amazement. “ What ! they never play football ! 
How queer ! ” 

“ And we seldom played it in my time,” said 
Mr. Dillon, as he stood observing the smoothness 
of the tennis-court. “ And never what you call 
Rugby.” 

Bob looked at Father Mirard and Mr. Dillon 
with inexpressible pity. 

“ What did you play ? ” 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Dillon, “ we had tops and 
marbles and kites in the spring ” 

“Kites?” said Baby Maguire. “What are 
kites ? ” 


THE SCHOOL. 107 

It was Mr. Dillon’s turn to look with pity on 
the boys. 

“ Well, you’ve missed something,” he said, “if 
you have never had a kite. It is more fun than 
fishing. And, then, the making of the kite, — it 
was a lesson in aeronautics. You got the colored 
tissue-paper and the paste and the string, and 
whittled the sticks. And then, when the wind 
was right, you reeled off your cord, and your kite 
mounted higher and higher, and floated in the 
air-currents between earth and sky.” 

“ It must have been slow” said Thomas Jeffer- 
son. “ A good game of marbles isn’t bad ; but 
there is nothing like baseball.” 

“ I suppose the boys have begun to play foot- 
ball already ?” asked Jack. 

“ Alas ! ” said Father Mirard, “ I am desolated 
to say that they have. At least, I think they 
have ; for I met a small boy with a very black 
eye yesterday.” 

“I wonder if they will give us a chance to 
play ? ” said Faky. “ I’d like to show them some- 
thing ! ” 

“ Why don’t the boys play cricket any more ? ” 
asked Mr. Dillon. “ In my time cricket was a 
great game.” 

“ It’s too English,” said Bob Bently. 

“ And what is Rugby ? ” asked Mr. Dillon. 
“ No game can be more English than Rugby.” 

“Oh, well, that’s different! ” said Bob. “We 


108 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


like Rugby and we don’t like cricket. I’ve 
gained ten pounds during vacation. Any fellow 
that /fall on will find me a pretty good weight.” 

The spirits of all the boys began to rise. They 
turned the corner of the house, and suddenly saw 
the whole school before them. In the centre of 
the campus, behind the house, about sixty boys, 
in grey uniforms, were drawn up in line ; while a 
man, also in grey uniform, inspected them. 

“Do we have to wear uniforms?” asked Jack, 
somewhat sadly. 

“Yes, my child,” said Father Mirard. “Pro- 
fessor Grigg believes much in the military 
manners. The boys are getting ready for their 
morning drill. The road there,” he said, point- 
ing to a path that ran to a gate, “ leads to my 
little church and to my house. The boys of the 
school hear Mass on Wednesdays and Sundays.” 

The captain who was drilling the boys saluted 
the guests in the most military fashion ; and his 
company wheeled and squared and presented 
arms, and went through all kinds of evolutions. 

Baby Maguire’s eyes fairly bulged. 

“ Shall I have to do all that ? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” said Father Mirard. “All the boys 
drill every day after breakfast.” 

“ A good thing,” Mr. Dillon said. “ It makes 
them carry themselves well. And if a war should 
come,” he added, smiling, “ we shall have our 
soldiers ready-made.” 


THE SCHOOL. 


109 


“ If a war broke out, would all the boys have 
to go ? ” asked Baby Maguire. 

“ Of course,” answered Jack ; “ and they ought 
to be glad enough to fight for their country.” 

“But they wouldn’t take you if you had 
nerves,” continued Baby, taking Father Mirard’s 
hand. “You’d be no use at all, if you had 
nerves.” 

“ You’d have to go anyhow,” Thomas Jefferson 
said. “ It wouldn’t make any difference. One 
battle would knock all the nerves out of you.” 

“Oh, no it wouldn’t ! ” said Baby. “ If I went 
into battle, I’d have my nerves so bad that the 
captain would have to stop fighting and look 
after me.” 

The boys laughed at this, and even Mr. Dillon 
smiled. 

The drill came to an end. The young soldiers, 
looking very smart in their grey suits, scattered 
in various directions ; and Father Mirard led his 
guests toward the river which skirted the grounds 
on the east side. As they walked across the lawn 
in front of the house, they saw a woman approach- 
ing them. 

“It is Madame Grigg,” said Father Mirard. 
“I must present you.” 

Mrs. Grigg came forward smilingly. Father 
Mirard went through the ceremony of introduc- 
tion with a grace that filled Jack and Bob with 
admiration. They looked anxiously at her, for 


110 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


they knew that much of their future comfort 
would depend on her. She was much younger 
than Miss McBride ; she had brown eyes, brown 
hair parted plainly on her forehead, and she wore 
a white gown with a great many ruffles. She 
bowed to Mr. Dillon, shook hands with Jack, 
Bob, Faky, and Baby Maguire, and kissed 
Thomas Jefferson. 

“ I always kiss the youngest scholar,” she said, 
gayly ; u and this little boy is just the age of my 
Raymond.” 

“ You ought to have kissed him” said Thomas 
Jefferson, in an injured tone, pointing to Baby 
Maguire. “ He's the youngest.” 

“Yes,” said Baby, plaintively; “and I have 
nerves.” 

“ Do you teach the boys, Mrs. Grigg ? ” asked 
Mr. Dillon, politely. 

“ Oh, no ! ” was the reply. “ I merely look 
after their comfort, and see that they are prop- 
erly fed, that their clothes are mended, and that 
sort of thing.” 

“ Very necessary things,” said Father Mirard. 
“ And she has a large family to look after, — and 
some boys have great appetites.” 

“We try to make the school as homelike as 
possible,” said Mrs. Grigg. “ Mr. Grigg takes all 
the higher branches, and Father Mirard looks 
after the theology and French, besides ” 

“ Theology ! ” exclaimed Jack, forgetting his 


THE SCHOOL. 


Ill 


manners and interrupting. “ Is it like geol- 
ogy?” 

“No,” said Father Mirard ; “and I think you 
know something of it already. It is Christian 
Doctrine.” 

Jack was relieved. 

“ I’m glad of that,” he said. “ Do you teach 
Ancient History here, Mrs. Grigg ? ” 

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Grigg. “We make a 
specialty of it. Let me walk to the river with 
you, — I notice the mail-carrier coming. There 
may be a note from Mr. Grigg. He probably 
reached Greenlawn last night. In that case, he 
may have sent me a note, or at least a postal 
card.” 

Baby thought of his green tickets, and asked : 

“Will not the professor lecture to-night on 
Ancient History ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Grigg. “He is devoted to 
Ancient History.” 

Jack could hardly suppress a groan. 

“ I may say he actually lives among the Acca- 
dians,” she went on ; “ and he is perfectly de- 
voted to the Scythians, — perfectly. But you, my 
dear child, I am sure care very little for such ab- 
struse studies.” 

“Oh, I love them ! ” said Baby Maguire, en- 
gagingly. “ Our Susan often told us about the 
Acajans, — they were giants in Ireland, and ” 

But Mrs. Grigg had received her letters : she 


112 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


was not paying attention. She looked at the ad- 
dresses on the various envelopes until she came 
to a hastily written note. 

“ From Mr. Grigg ! ” she remarked. “ I am 
sure, Mr. Dillon, that he would break his engage- 
ment, if he could, in order to meet you. If you 
could only stay here until to-morrow ! He tells 
me,” and she glanced at the note, “that he 
reached Greenlawn safe, with no adventure, ex- 
cept — except — what can this mean ? Oh, yes ! — 
except with meeting with some boys of the most 
savage kind, Avho had filled his berth with some 
slimy things, which he was led to believe were 
young alligators — how awful, Mr. Dillon! — but 
he believes now that they were only pumpkin 
pies.” 

“ They weren’t — ” began Baby. 

Thomas Jefferson aimed at him a kick, which 
made him stop short. 

“ Mr. Griggs says that he was severely shocked 
by his experience, and that he would have to 
take medical advice before he can lecture to- 
night. He has obtained the names of the bo}^s 
from the conductor and porter, with whom they 
had talked ; and he will have them punished to 
the full extent of the law. He speaks of an 
angelic child who rescued him just as he thought 
he felt the fangs of an alligator enter his ankle 
— goodness gracious ! how terrible ! ” 

Baby’s face assumed a complacent smile. Mr. 


THE SCHOOL. 


113 


Dillon, who was usually in what is called a 
“ brown-study,” could not help noticing that the 
other boys were downcast. 

“Well, my dear boys,” he said, “I am happy 
to tell Mrs. Grigg that you share in her horror 
of this nasty trick. A boy who would put alli- 
gators and pumpkin pie into a man’s sleeping 
berth will be hanged some day.” 

“ But suppose he didn’t intend to do it ? ” said 
Jack, catching at a straw of consolation. 

“In that case,” said Mr. Dillon, sternly, “he 
must have been crazy, and an asylum is the only 
place for him. If Tancred Flavius here did such 
a thing, I should consider that either the state- 
prison or an insane asylum were the place for 
him. These young gentlemen, ma’am, are per- 
haps, somewhat playful, but they are not vicious.” 

“All boys are playful,” said Father Mirard. 
“We pardon much in youth when there is no 
malice. Professor Grigg is not usually severe. 
I am sure that these young gentlemen are in- 
capable of mixing up the products of the North 
and those of the South in a sleeping-car.” 

The boys made no answer, though Father 
Mirard smiled benevolently upon them. Baby 
alone looked jubilant, — the green tickets were 
safe in his pocket. 

Mrs. Grigg put her letters into a velvet bag 
which hung at her side ; and, taking Baby by the 
hand, led the way between two shining box- 


114 


JACK CHUMLEIGJI. 


wood hedges to the river. It was smooth and 
narrow, and almost hidden from view by bending 
elms and willows. 

“The water is rather low just at the present 
time,” said Mrs. Grigg, — “ we have had a drought ; 
but it is still high enough for boating and bath- 
ing. We like to call it a river ; but compared 
with the Delaware and the Schuylkill it is only a 
stream.” 

“It is a very nice little river,” said Baby. “ I 
hope the water is warm.” 

“Not always,” said Mrs. Grigg. “Sometimes 
it is frozen. Mr. Grigg is devoted to physical 
culture ; and there are boys here who, under the 
orders of the physician, take a plunge in the 
river even when they have to break the ice. 
And they like it.” 

“ Oh, I could never do it ! ” said Baby, “ Pro- 
fessor Grigg would not expect me to do it — I 
have nerves.” 

“ That is one of Mr. Grigg’s cures for nervous 
people,” she said. “ And I’m afraid that he may 
expect you to try it.” 

As if touched by a ray of sunlight, Bob’s face 
shone. 

“ Oho, he’s caught it now ! ” he whispered to 
Jack. 

“We’ll have to run away,” Jack whispered in 
return. “ Professor Grigg will make it hot for 
us.” 


THE SCHOOL. 


115 


“ I’ll stay until I see that sneak of a Baby take 
his first plunge,” added Bob. 

“ I am afraid that my carriage will be waiting,” 
said Mr. Dillon, taking out his watch. “ It must 
be almost train time.” 

Mrs. Grigg regretted that Mr. Dillon could not 
stay for dinner, and Father Mirard that he could 
not see his church. The carriage was seen 
driving up to the house. Mr. Dillon said good- 
bye. And as he disappeared in the distance, 
Faky remarked to Thomas Jefferson : 

“ Grown-ups are queer ! One school is as bad 
as another. I am going to run away, and earn 
my living by writing poetry.” 


116 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


XI. 

A SURPRISE. 

When Mr. Dillon had departed, Father Mirard 
took the boys to his church ; Mrs. Grigg leaving, 
to attend to her duties. 

“ Of course you have conge to-day,” Father 
Mirard said. “ You will not be expected to 
begin your classes until to-morrow.” 

“ Conge f” whispered Bob Bently. “ What is 

conge f ” 

“ Oh, recreation ! ” said Jack. “ I knew a 
fellow from a French school, and he always 
talked of conge. Well, that is so much gained, 
anyhow. The worst can’t happen till to-mor- 
row.” 

Father Mirard told stories as they went along 
the path, bordered with high clover stalks just a 
little rusted by the hot autumn sun, — stories of 
adventures that made them forget that they 
were in a strange place and touched with home- 
sickness. They reached the church, which was 
so bright and cheerful that the boys — even Baby, 
who was constantly engaged in thinking of him- 
self, — felt their hearts lifted up. 

They admired the lovely pictures of St. 


A SURPRISE. 


117 


Francis and St. Anthony of Padua over the side 
altars ; and Jack, though he was almost dazzled 
by the brightness of the interior of the church, 
said that “ it was almost as full of prayer as old 
St. Joseph’s.” 

This pleased Father Mirard and amazed Bob 
Bently, who had not considered Jack as a pious 
boy. 

When they had said their prayers, and admired 
the Stations and the ceiling and the carving of 
the organ, they went out on the lawn and looked 
at Father Mirard’s flower-beds. 

They were all delighted with the priest. He 
was dignified, yet perfectly simple. He seemed 
never to think of himself — which is, after all, the 
root of good manners, — and he listened to the 
boys “as if,” as Faky Dillon said, “we knew as 
much as he did.” 

In a short time it seemed as if they had known 
him all their lives. He led them into his house. 
The parlor seemed very bare to Jack, accus- 
tomed to the solemn “ saloon parlors ” of his 
neighborhood at home, with tidies and gilded 
frames and ornaments in abundance. In fact, 
there was nothing in Father Mirard’s parlor but 
chairs, a table on which rested a big volume of 
the “ Lives of the Saints,” and a beautiful pic- 
ture of the Annunciation over the chimney-piece. 

Father Mirard’s face glowed as he pointed to 
this picture. 


118 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Is it not a treasure ? It is a copy from Guido 
Reni.” 

“ It is very nice,” said Faky. “ Is it a chromo 
or a real engraving?” And he looked at the 
picture very critically. As a poet, he felt it his 
duty to have opinions on art. 

Jack blushed for him. 

“ Of course it is an oil picture,” he said, hastily ; 
“ and hand-painted too. Father Mirard wouldn’t 
have a chromo in his house. Why, they give away 
chromos with tea and newspapers and things.” 

“I have seen beautiful chromos,” said Faky, 
“ with watermelons in them greener and redder 
than anything you ever saw in real life, Jack 
Chumleigh. And have you ever seen our engrav- 
ings? They’re in the front parlor, — ‘Mercy’s 
Dream’ and ‘Washington Crossing the Dela- 
ware.’ Of course Father Mirard’s picture is very 
good, but you can’t pass it off on me as an en- 
graving. You ought to see our pictures, Father 
Mirard ! They’re boss ! ” 

Father Mirard smiled ; but he looked out the 
window, so that the boys did not see him. 

Jack still blushed as Faky went on. 

“ I’ve read in a book about Guido Reni and 
Raphael and the other painters,” he said ; “ and 
I’d like to be a great artist myself. I think those 
little angels above the head of the Blessed Virgin 
are the most beautiful things I have ever seen.” 

“ It would look better if you had the lower part 


A SURPRISE. 


119 


of it repainted,” said Bob Bently. “ It might do, 
if you freshened it up a little.” 

The priest shook his head and smiled. 

“ I am afraid you know more about baseball 
and stamp collecting than about pictures, my 
little lads. When Professor Grigg has lectures 
on art, I hope you’ll be sure to be present.” 

“ Stamps ! ” exclaimed Faky. “ Have you any 
stamps ? I’ve lots of duplicates, if you want to 
trade. I’d give three Columbians and a Turkish 
for a Mauritius.” 

“I’ll look among my effects some day,” said 
Father Mirard, much amused by the boy’s ear- 
nestness. “ If you are very good, and give satis- 
faction to Professor Grigg, I will let you look 
through my letters yourself. I rather think that 
I have some letters from the Isle of France, but 
they’re very old.” 

“ The older the better,” said Faky. He seized 
Father Mirard ’s arm, and poured forth a flood of 
information about stamps that amazed the amiable 
priest. “I’ve a set of Columbians, unused, I’d 
sell for three fifty,” he said. “ They go up only 
to ten cents, but in a few years they’ll be worth 
their weight in gold. They’re quoting them 
high in London now.” 

“ I am much more interested in gathering 
stamps to help the missionaries,” said Father 
Mirard. Then he turned to Jack. “What is 
your hobby, my child ? ” 


120 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“Ancient History,” interposed Thomas Jeffer- 
son, with a giggle, before Jack could answer. 

“ It is well,” said Father Mirard, not noticing 
Jack’s face. “I like boys to be interested in 
something. The listless, careless boy is worth- 
less.” 

“ If I could find a Mauritius of the one and two 
pence, first issue, I’d be a made boy ! ” cried 
Faky, with sparkling eyes. 

“ Oh, I’m tired of his talking about stamps ! ” 
said Baby Maguire, with a yawn. “ I wish it 
was dinner-time ! ” 

“ I wish there was somebody we knew among 
all those fellows up at the school,” put in Bob. 
“We’ll just have to stick together and hold our 
own, — that’s all.” 

The feeling of homesickness struck them all 
again ; and Jack’s heart felt like lead as he re- 
membered the episode of the sleeping-car and 
Mrs. Grigg’s letter from the professor. 

Father Mirard walked back with them through 
the clover path. Jack hoped that he would have 
let them go back without him. Homesickness 
and the fear of Mr. Grigg’s return had filled him 
with the desire to run away, and he wanted to 
talk the matter over with the other boys. He 
said to himself that if he could once get home 
and tell how he felt, he was sure his father and 
mother would let him stay at home. Life would 
be intolerable in this strange place. 


A SURPRISE. 


121 


“ If we only knew somebody ! ” he said, — “ if 
we only knew somebody ! ” 

At the entrance of the campus, which was 
now deserted, Father Mirard bade the boys 
good-bye. 

“I shall see you in the Christian Doctrine 
class to-morrow,” he said. “ Keep up your 
spirits, and be good boys.” 

“ I like him,” said Faky ; “ though he seems to 
think a great deal about that old picture, and he 
doesn’t know much about stamps. The French 
boys must be strange. Think of his being sur- 
prised because he saw a boy with a black eye ! 
Do you remember Miley Galligan, Susan’s 
cousin ? He had three back teeth knocked out 
and a big dent in his head. lie could play, — he 
could ! ” 

Jack sighed. The mention of Miley brought 
back to him the big, warm kitchen, and all the 
homely sights and sounds he liked. 

“If Miley or somebody we knew were only 
here ! ” he said. “ I can’t stand it, — that’s all ; 
and Professor Grigg’s coming after us with a 
sharp stick, too ! ” 

“We’ll have to stand it,” replied Bob. “We 
must have an education, and the best thing we 
can do is to get it over as soon as possible. 
There is no use in worrying, Jack. Nobody 
could be queerer than Miss McBride, and we 
can’t be worse off than we were last winter.” 


122 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


“ 111 run away ! ” said Jack, firmly. 

Bob stood still, and the other boys halted too 
on hearing this bold language. 

“ Oh, don’t talk so silly, Jack ! ” Bob answered ; 
“ and before Thomas Jefferson and Faky, too. 
I’ve learned a good many lessons since I was a 
kid like Baby there, and I know that there is no 
use in running away from trouble. I’m not a 
religious boy, Jack ; but I want to be, because it 
helps you to bear things. Little Guy showed 
me that. I really want to be good like him, 
Jack; and you — Faky Dillon, if you look as if 
you were going to laugh, I’ll smash your jaw ! ” 
he added, suddenly. 

Faky, who sometimes assumed a peculiar 
squint, only intended to be funny ; but he be- 
came grave at once. 

“ I don’t want to be goody-goody, but I want 
to be good ; and I can’t be good and run away, 
and you can’t either. If we’re Christians” — 
Bob flushed and looked straight at Faky, whose 
face did not change, — “ we’ve got to bear all 
this education and that sort of thing without 
going against our parents, — that’s all. I’ve said 
my say.” 

“Well, but I can’t stand it! I’d rather be a 
poor boy in the streets than be what I am. He's 
let alone sometimes. But with me, it has always 
been, ‘ J ack, did you clean your teeth this morn- 
ing?’ — 4 Jack, you don’t know your arithmetic.’ 


A SURPRISE. 


123 


— ‘Jack, why don’t you wear your gloves? 
Don’t you know you’re going to church this 
morning ? ’ — And I’m sure it will begin all over 
again. And this Professor Grigg is down on us, 
too.” 

Bob stood still, whistling, and cutting at the 
long clover heads with a stick he had picked up. 

“ I’ve been thinking of that,” he said. “ Now, 
if we go straight to Professor Grigg, and ex- 
plain to him how the pies got into his bunk, he 
isn’t much of a man if he doesn’t laugh over it 
with us. And then he’ll wipe off the slate.” 

“ I saw him,” said Faky, disconsolately. “ He’s 
the kind of man that never laughs. Now, you 
can see by the twinkle in Father Mirard’s eye 
that he would laugh at one of our jokes if you 
explained it to him, and he’d wipe off the slate. 
But Professor Grigg is different.” 

“ You didn’t see him to speak to,” said Baby 
Maguire, with an air of importance. 

“ I saw his legs sticking out of the berth,” said 
Faky, indignantly, “and his shoes out on the 
floor. I tell you he didn’t have the kind of legs 
that take a joke, and his shoes were just as 
solemn , — I know ! ” 

Faky had a great reputation as a reader of 
character. Silence followed. 

“ We shall not run away, — that’s certain,” said 
Bob Bently. “Jack, you be a man. You’re al- 
ways afraid of things that never happen.” 


124 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Jack sighed. In spite of the sunshine and the 
scent of dried clover, and the red-cheeked apples 
visible through the leaves of the orchard, the 
world seemed gloomy. 

Just as the boys reached the larger campus a 
number of boys in loose grey jackets marched 
from one of the side doors. A young man, who 
seemed to be in command of this squad, called 
out : 

“ Disperse ! ” 

The boys broke ranks at once and scattered 
over the playground. Some of them rushed to 
the tennis-courts, others took possession of the 
diamond, and others began to kick footballs in 
the smaller campus behind the boxwood hedge. 

The newcomers ranged themselves in a row, 
and looked at these operations with critical eyes. 

“ These fellows are not up to much,” remarked 
Thomas Jefferson. “ Look at that little one try- 
ing to pitch. He can’t throw a ball.” 

“ Oh, my ! ” said Faky, contemptuously. 
“Well, did you ever ! There’s a youngster that 
kicks somebody’s shin every time he aims at the 
football ! ” 

“That’s the new way,” replied Thomas Jeffer- 
son, with an air of superior knowledge. “You 
try to skin a man whenever you can. That’s in 
the new Rugby tactics.” 

“ Look at the little fellow ! — look at the little 
fellow ! ” screamed Faky, suddenly. “ Go it, 


A SURPRISE. 


125 


shrimp! Go it, spider! You’re all right! 
Go-o-o-o-o-o it ! You’re all right ! It’s a foul, — 
I say it’s a foul ! ” 

The little fellow, with a cropped head on 
which a big scar was visible, rushed up to where 
the boys were standing, and struck the earth 
heavily. But he was on his feet in an instant, 
holding the ball triumphantly. He caught sight 
of the boys and scowled. 

“ You call me spider again ! — you call me 
shrimp ! ” he began. But his tone suddenly 
changed. “ Why, don’t you know me ? ” he said, 
cordially. “Didn’t you get my watermelon? 
Well, you are peaches ! Don’t you know me ? 
I’m Miley Galligan.” 


126 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


XII. 

THE POET AND THE PUGILIST. 

Miley’s face fairly beamed. “ Just to think 
of you fellows being here ! ” he said. “ Why, it’s 
great ! We’ll run this school. I was just think- 
ing of running away. I didn’t want to come here ; 
but I’ve an uncle-in-law — the biggest crank in 
the world ; he writes books, and his name is J ohn 
Longworthy, — and he said he’d pay for me at a 
good school, if I’d prepare myself for college. 
And mother pounced on me just as I was going 
down to the Battery Bath, and sent me here in 
charge of a conductor we know. I can’t tell you 
how glad I am. But,” he added in a whisper, 
“there isn’t much fun here. It isn’t like the 
schools you read about. They don’t toss fellows 
in blankets, or do things like that. I tried to 
teach ’em last night, but they weren’t up to it. 
The boys here haven’t any snap.” 

Miley turned his back on the students, and led 
the way to the shade of a big maple on the edge 
of the campus. He threw himself upon the 
ground, surveyed the players with a supercilious 
air, and then invited his friends to follow his ex- 
ample and stretch themselves on the grass. 

“I’m trying to size those kids up,” he said. 


THE POET AND THE PUGILIST. 


127 


“ I don’t know just who you ought to know. 
But we’ll talk about ourselves first. Did you 
get my watermelon ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Jack, sadly. 

“ You needn’t be so short about it. You might 
thank a fellow,” said Miley. “ It was a bouncer, 
wasn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, it was a bouncer,” admitted Jack. 

“ It bounced us out here, — that is, it helped,” 
said Faky, with some bitterness in his tone. “ But, 
of course, you meant well, Miley. We’ll tell you 
all about it later. So you don’t like this school ? ” 

“ I don’t like any school,” said Miley, frankly. 
“ I got on pretty well with the Brothers. But 
they have eyes in the back of their head, and 
they find out everything. So mother had to 
take me away, because I played on the wharves, 
and they went and told her. And I was getting 
on well enough, too. There’s one thing about 
the Brothers that I like,” continued Miley, in a 
burst of confidence : “ they settle with you at 
once. If they wallop you, why they wallop you, 
— that’s all ! They don’t nag you about it as 
Miss McBride did.” 

“ What do you think of this school, Miley ? ” 
asked Jack, anxiously. 

“ Oh, not much ! The professor himself isn’t 
here, but Mrs. Prof, is around. There’s a fellow 
that teaches dancing and drills the boys, and 
there are a lot of other men ; but they don’t say 


128 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


much to you. Mrs. Prof, patted me on the head 
and hoped that I wouldn’t miss my mamma. I’m 
to be examined to-morrow ; I’ll know more about 
the place then.” 

“Do the boys have much to say ? ” asked Bob 
Bently, while the others hung on Miley’s words. 

“ I guess not,” replied Miley. “ I don’t intend 
that they’re to have much to say while I’m 
around.” He screwed up his forehead and filled 
it with wrinkles, which were intended to express 
great fierceness of temper. 

Faky Dillon laughed. 

“ You just look out ! ” Miley began. “ I won’t 
have anybody laughing if I don’t know the 
reason.” 

Faky laughed again. 

Miley jumped up and put himself into a fight- 
ing attitude. 

“ You’re not going to laugh at me,” he said, 
“ in front of a lot of strangers, — not if I know it. 
I’ll settle you.” 

“ That’s all right,” said Faky, derisively. “ I’m 
the only boy here about your own size, and you 
want to show off. Come on ; I’m not afraid ! 

“ There was a small boy they called Miles, 

And he couldn’t stand innocent smiles ” 

Bob interrupted. 

“ Look here, Miley,” he said, “ I will have no 
fighting. It is a bad way to begin.” 


THE POET AND THE PUGILIST. 129 

Miley looked at him defiantly. 

“ You’re not going to run this school ! ” he said. 

“ No,” replied Bob. “ I haven’t time for that, 
but I am going to run myself ; and I am going 
to see that there’s no nonsense among the crowd 
I’m in.” 

“ The idea of fighting with Faky for talking 
poetry ! ” said Thomas Jefferson. “Why, you’re 
awfully foolish, Miley. He can’t help it : he was 
born that way. And, besides, he would only 
write more poetry, and make everybody laugh 
at you.” 

“ It is a bad beginning, anyhow,” said Jack. 
“If we fight among ourselves, we can’t expect 
much respect from the other fellows. If you 
don’t like all of us, Miley, you’d better go over to 
the other fellows. We are not pining for you.” 

Miley’s face lost its tough look ; his bright eyes 
looked at Jack and Bob, to see whether they were 
in earnest or not. He saw that they were ; he 
unclasped his fists and shook hands with Faky. 

“ But,” he said, “ I’m a bruiser from Bruiser- 
town ; and, if I ketch you making poetry about 
me, you’ll find that I’m all there.” 

Faky began, gently : 

“ There was a small boy called Mil-ee, 

He thought he could smash up poor me ; 

But Bob said he shouldn’t, 

And I knew he couldn’t, — 

So let’s laugh at unhappy Mil-ee ! ” 


130 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


Miley rushed at Faky, but Jack and Bob held 
him back. 

“This won’t do,” said Jack. 

“I told you that punching Faky would be of 
no use,” said Thomas Jelferson. “ He isn’t 
afraid, because he knows that he can get even 
with you some time. He’ll have every boy in 
the school singing verses about you if you don’t 
look out.” 

“Faky can’t help it,” put in Baby Maguire. 
“ He can no more help it than I can help my 
nerves.” 

Miley reluctantly permitted himself to become 
peaceful. 

This incident cast a gloom over the meeting ; 
and, as none of the other boys came to speak to 
the strangers, Bob and Faky and Jack became 
more and more homesick. 

At last Faky spoke : 

“ What kind of a time are we likely to have, 
anyhow ? ” 

“A very bad time if you keep on being so 
sassy,” said Miley, with a growl. “ But remem- 
ber, if you fellows want to run away, I’m with 
you.” 

“We don’t want to run away,” said Jack, sud- 
denly. “ I’ve found out that the only way to 
get on is to face what’s before you. You may 
laugh, Miley, and you too, Faky, if you like ; but 
duty is duty, and we’ve got to stick to our posts ; 


THE POET AND THE PUGILIST. 


131 


though I wish from the bottom of my heart I 
were home.” 

“I’m not laughing,” said Faky. “I’m in for 
duty every time. If you fellows were literary, 
you’d know all about the boy that stood on the 
burning deck whence all but he had fled. There 
was duty that was duty. Professor Grigg, when 
he finds out that we are the boys that mixed him 
up with the custard pies in the sleeper, will make 
it as hot for us as that burning deck ; but we’ll 
have to stand it.” 

“ I don’t see why grown-up people can’t see 
the difference between what’s fun and what you 
mean to do,” said Bob, impetuously. “You try 
to have some fun and you don’t break a window : 
nobody minds. You try to have some more fun 
and you do break a window : everybody is down 
on you. It’s ‘Come here, sir, till I skin you 
alive ! ’ And it’s all sorts of scolding. ‘ Why 
did you play ball in the yard ? ’ And you say 
that you always played ball in the yard, and it 
was all right until somebody left a shutter open, 
and your ball went through a pane of glass. 
Nobody minds what you say, or whether you 
intended to break the glass or not. If your ball 
goes through the glass, you’re bad ; if it doesn’t 
touch the glass, you’re good enough. A boy just 
has a dog’s life, — that’s all. I wish I were a 
girl.” 

There was an awed silence. 


132 


JACK CHUMLEIGrH. 


“You don’t mean that?” said Thomas Jeffer- 
son. “ You wouldn’t like to be a girl. Did you 
ever see girls try to pitch a ball ? Oh, my ! ” 

“Yes, I do! ’’said Bob, desperately. “A girl 
has some rights. People are afraid that she’ll 
cry and sob, so they’re nice to her. I might 
howl till I was black in the face, and who’d 
care ? Nobody.” 

“You know you wouldn’t like to be a girl, 
Bob,” said Jack. “ You’re just saying that, be- 
cause you think Professor Grigg will take it out 
of us for putting the pies in his berth.” 

“ How did we know that he was going to get 
into that berth?” demanded Bob, taking his 
hands from his face and glaring at his friends. 
“ If we did it on purpose, we’d have the fun of it 
to remember ; but we didn't do it on purpose, and 
we haven’t had the fun, and I don’t see why we 
should bear the punishment. It isn’t fair. And 
here’s Baby, — he was in it as much as we were, 
and he’ll come out all right. I say it isn’t fair.” 

Bob buried his chin in his hands again. 

Faky’s eyes moistened ; but he recovered him- 
self very quickly. 

“I say, Bob, don’t look on the dark side of 
things. If to-day is gloomy, to-morrow will be 
bright, — you can make up your mind to that.” 

Bob was not inclined to accept advice from a 
person of Faky’s age; but somehow it rather 
comforted him, though he growled out : 


THE POET AND THE PUGILIST. 


133 


“ What do you know about it ? ” 

Faky only grinned. 

“ I’d like to see old Grigg jumping out of that 
berth again. If he cuts up rough I’ll make a 
poem on him, — that’s what I’ll do.” 

“Ho,” said Jack, “you will not. We’ve got 
to respect Professor Grigg ; it is part of our re- 
ligion. And, whatever happens, we must begin 
right.” 

“ It is in the examination of conscience,” said 
Thomas Jelferson ; “and if we were to make fun 
of Professor Grigg, we’d have to tell it when we 
went to confession.” 

Miley sighed. 

“ But there’s a boss priest here,” he said. “ He 
spoke to me the first time, and I showed him 
how to pitch. Just think, he had never played 
baseball in his life! And when I had taught 
him to pitch, he gave me a St. Benedict’s medal 
and a picture of Our Lord carrying a lamb. I’m 
going to confession regularly. I never did like 
to go. Mother had to chase me every time I 
went. Sometimes my Aunt Mary gave me 
candy to go ; but the chasing was more fun. 
But now I am going regularly. I promised 
Father Mirard.” 

“ We’ll have to do the best we can,” said 
Jack; “but I do think that life is awfully hard 
for boys.” 

A swift ball flew toward Jack from the 


134 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


campus. He was on his feet in a moment. He 
caught it and sent it back. And a boy in uni- 
form came running toward him. 

“ Halloo ! ” he said, in a soft voice, as he 
touched his military cap. “ Do you want to 
play ? ” 

“ Cert ! ” answered Miley, promptly. 

“ Oh, not you ! ” said the boy. “ You ! ” He 
pointed to Jack. 

The latter nodded, and the two were off at 
once. 

“I like that!” said Miley. “Jack drops us 
soon enough.” 

“Why did that boy touch his hat?” asked 
Thomas Jefferson. 

“It is the rule,” said Miley. “ You’ve got to 
put on military airs here.” 

Another boy — a round-faced, chubby boy, with 
a touch of the brogue, — came over to them and 
saluted. He had taken off his coat and wore a 
“ sweater.” 

“Your chum pitches well,” he said, good- 
naturedly. “ Let’s all have a game. We 
thought you were chumps.” 

Faky grinned. 

“ You’ll find out,” he said. 

And for the next half hour all gloom disap- 
peared. 


BEFORE TITE EXAMINATION. 


135 


XIII. 

BEFORE THE EXAMINATION. 

Naturally, the new boys were privileged. 
In the middle of the game of ball the dinner-bell 
rang. All the other boys formed into ranks and 
went to the wash-room, from which they came 
out with ruddy faces, and hands of a color that 
showed, at least, that the intentions of the wash- 
ers were good. The new boys were taken to 
Mrs. Grigg’s dining-room. 

After dinner, which took place at noon, they 
were taken for a long walk by Father Mirard, 
who discovered without much effort, the exact 
amount of religious knowledge that each boy 
possessed. His impression was that Jack was 
the most pious ; though Baby Maguire uttered 
several noble sentiments, with his eyes fixed on 
the apple orchard in the distance. 

When the boys passed it, the apples were found 
to be very late ones, and still hard ; so Babv 
abruptly deserted Father Mirard, and amused 
himself by looking for blackberries. 

“ To-morrow we begin work,” he said, with a 
sigh. “ I wonder when the cook will send us a 
box ? That's something to look forward to.” 


136 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“Mother will not send it till Thanksgiving. 
She said so, — I asked her,” said Thomas Jeffer- 
son. 

“Cook will,” said Baby, confidently. “And 
Susan will try to send a better box than cook’s. 
I know just how they feel.” 

“ You are always thinking of eating,” re- 
marked Thomas Jefferson, with a sneer. “ You’re 
a little brute, Baby.” 

“All right!” said Baby. “You may call 
names; but professor hasn’t got me in his eye. 
He isn’t going to be hard on m^.” 

The gloom deepened on Thomas Jefferson’s 
brow. However, he heard Bob asking Father 
Mirard some questions about Napoleon ; and he 
hurried forward, anxious to forget the shadow of 
Professor Grigg. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” Father Mirard was saying, “ my 
grandfather knew Napoleon well, — very well. 
He was a friend of one of his secretaries. Napo- 
leon was a very amiable man at times, and his 
soldiers were devoted to him. Even after his 
death, his old troops — the troops of the grande 
armee — would have died for him. They tell a 
story of their devotion which you may find it 
hard to believe.” 

“ Tell it ! — tell us ! ” said Jack, who loved 
stories about heroes, provided they were not out 
of the Ancient History. “ Oh, tell us ! ” 

“Well,” said Father Mirard, sitting down on 


BEFORE THE EXAMINATION. 137 

a stump beneath the largest apple-tree, “ I will ; 
but I do not vouch for its truth. The story is 
this, told by an American traveler : The Em- 
peror once met one of his old guard in Kussia. 
The old soldier had risen in the ranks, and wore 
the sword of a colonel. The Emperor spoke as 
if he doubted the devotion of the old guard. ‘ I 
lost an arm in the service of Napoleon,’ he said ; 
4 do you doubt that ? ’ — 4 How you must hate a 
man who caused you such personal injury and 
shed so much blood ! ’ — 4 Hate him ! ’ said the old 
soldier, with flashing eyes. 4 1 hate him so much 
that I would lose my other arm in his service.’ 
The Emperor, on whom the gloom of misfortune 
had begun to fall, smiled doubtfully. 4 Yes,’ re- 
peated the devoted old soldier, 4 1 would lose the 
other arm for him.’ Napoleon again smiled 
doubtfully. Suddenly the soldier pulled out his 
keen blade and cut off the other arm.” 

Father Mirard looked at the upturned faces. 

44 Is that all ? ” asked Baby Maguire. 44 Did 
he die ? ” 

44 That was awful ! ” said Faky Dillon. 44 1 
don’t see how he could have done it.” 

Jack’s eyes were fixed steadily on Father 
Mirard’s face. 

44 Did your grandfather see that done, Father ? ” 
he asked. 

44 No,” said Father Mirard, turning his face 
away. 


138 


JACK CHtTMLEIGH. 


“ I don’t see how anybody could be such a 
fool,” said Jack. “ Think of cutting your arm 
off for an old emperor ! If George W ashington 
had been in France, he’d have wiped out Napo- 
leon. I don’t believe anybody would be foolish 
enough to do such a thing. Why, I wouldn’t do 
it for George Washington himself, and you know 
how much I think of George Washington. Why, 
it’s ridiculous ! ” cried Jack, more warmly. “ It’s 
about as foolish as that story about Regulus and 
the barrel of knives, and Heliogabalus smother- 
ing people with roses. Why, if you hadn’t told 
it about Napoleon, Father, it would have passed 
for a story out of the Ancient History. It is 
just like what some of those queer people that 
lived with Hannibal or Alexander would do.” 

Bob looked thoughtful. Then a twinkle came 
into his eye, and he saw an answering twinkle in 
Father Mirard’s. 

“ Why,” exclaimed Faky, suddenly, “ how could 
he cut off one hand ? ” 

The boys did not let him finish. They made 
a rush for Father Mirard, who, forgetting his 
cassock, actually rolled over on the grass. From 
that moment they were devoted friends of his ; 
and they laughed so much over the neat way in 
which he had taken them in that they forgot — as 
he intended they should — all the doubts and fears 
that had oppressed them. He took them to his 
house for supper, for which he taught them to 


BEFORE THE EXAMINATION. 


139 


make a salad of the second growth of dandelion 
leaves. And after supper he made them learn 
some old French songs : “ Au clair de la lune,” 1 

and “Sur le Pont d’ Avignon.” 2 They went 
home singing at the top of their voices : 


“ Nous n’irons pas au bois, 

Les lauriers sont coupees .” 3 

And Father Mirard stood at his door, waving 
his hand to them. 

“ It makes me young again,” he said, as he 
closed the door and took up his Breviary. “ Dear 
me ! ” he added, laughing, “ I have been a boy all 
the afternoon.” 

The boys went to bed in the dormitory where 
all the other boys slept. It was a long room 
with big windows, into each one of which was 
fastened a ventilating apparatus which resembled 
a little wheel. And when the wind blew hard 
in the night, these little wheels made a buzzing 
like that of a hundred flies. The old boys did 
not mind it ; but the new ones, as they lay in 
their narrow white beds and waited for sleep to 
come, it was a matter of great annoyance, es- 
pecially as Baby Maguire informed them that it 
was caused by mosquitoes preparing to make a 

1 In the light of the moon. 2 On the bridge of Avignon. 

3 We shall go no more to the woods, 

The laurel-trees are cut. 


140 


JACK CHUM LEIGH. 


descent on them. The buzzing soon ceased, 
however, as far as they were concerned; it was 
not long before they were so far in the land of 
dreams that even a clap of thunder could not 
have awakened them. 

The next day, after breakfast with the other 
boys, they were ranged in front of the wall in 
Professor Grigg’s study. Even Baby Maguire’s 
heart sank as the professor entered and took his 
seat behind the green covered table, strewn with 
books. Faky could not see his legs : they were 
concealed by a large waste-paper basket under 
the table ; but he knew that this tall, whiskered, 
and rather severe-looking gentleman was the 
hero of the sleeping-car adventure. 

No grown-up person, who has lost his memory 
of the past, can believe how Jack and Bob and 
Thomas Jefferson, and even the courageous Faky, 
suffered as they stood against the wall waiting 
for the professor to examine them. His head 
was buried in the folds of a large blue letter, and 
he did not raise it for some time. Faky noticed 
that the envelope bore a Hamburg stamp. He 
was divided between the desire to obtain that 
stamp and a feeling of unreasonable fear that 
made his hands become cold and clammy. A 
gush of joy seemed to enter Bob Bently’s heart. 
The professor bent his head over his letter ; and 
when he raised it for a moment, Bob saw that 
he wore eyeglasses with double lenses. He was 


BEFORE THE EXAMINATION. 


141 


near-sighted, Bob thought, and evidently very 
near-sighted. 

It was cruel of Baby Maguire, when he knew 
very well how the other boys felt, to grin at 
them with such an air of triumph. It was more 
cruel for him to raise up his two green tickets, 
with an irritating air of enjoyment, just as the 
professor had buried his nose in the blue letter 
again. 

“ I can’t imagine why Herr Ganzenheimer con- 
fuses the dative case of the Homorinthian dialect 
with the vocative used only in the Accadian folk 
songs,” he muttered. Then he forgot all about 
the waiting boys. 

With a sweet smile, which grew sweeter as he 
saw the frowns on the faces of the other boys, 
Baby restored, as he thought, the precious tickets 
for the lecture to his back pocket — the “ pistol 
pocket,” which every self-respecting boy used to 
insist on having in his breeches, — but the pocket 
was full of unripe apples. An upward glance of 
the professor caused Baby to start suddenly, and 
the tickets fell to the floor. They were snatched 
by Faky Dillon before anybody else saw them. 
Faky no longer feared, and Bob was amazed 
when one of the green tickets was thrust into 
his hand. Faky’s wink told all, and now Bob 
no longer feared. Jack and Thomas Jefferson 
were utterly wretched. Jack wished with all 
his heart that something would happen. How 


142 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


tempting the green lawn was ! It stretched be- 
tween the rows of scarlet geranium beds to the 
white palings of the fence, and beyond was the 
blue sky which covered home, — “ home ! ” Oh, 
if he could only jump out that window and run ! 
To add to the horror of the moment, Thomas 
Jefferson read the word “ Algebra” on the back 
of one of the books on the professor’s table. 

“Jack,” he whispered, “ will he ask us that? ” 

“ What ? ” 

“ That” said Thomas J efferson, pointing to the 
book. “ O Jack, how much is two-thirds multi- 
plied by six-fifths ? I’m sure he’ll ask us frac- 
tions. What’s the rule of fractions, — addition of 
fractions, I mean ? ” 

“ I can’t think,” answered Jack, his gaze di- 
vided between the bald spot on Professor Grigg’s 
head and the baleful algebra book. 

“What range of mountains are the Hima- 
layas?” demanded Thomas Jefferson, in a fierce 
whisper. “ They always ask that. O Jack, tell 
me ! ” 

“ I can’t think,” said Jack, stupidly. “ I know 
that the Nile is in Africa, Tom; but that’s all I 
know just now.” 

Thomas Jefferson plucked Faky Dillon’s sleeve 
in agony. 

“ Where’s Thibet ? — where’s Thibet ? ” he asked. 
“ Miss McBride told me that if I missed Thibet a 
third time — he'll be certain to ask that. I’ve 


BEFORE THE EXAMINATION. 


143 


forgotten everything. And who were the Ac- 
cadians ? ” 

“I don’t know,” answered Faky, with a sup- 
pressed chuckle. “ Suppose you ask the pro- 
fessor ? ” 

This flippant answer froze the words on Thomas 
Jefferson’s tongue. 

“ I 'll ask him, if you want me to,” whispered 
Faky, with unparalleled boldness. “ Professor,” 
he said aloud, “may I disturb you? We are 
much interested in the Accadians, and we thought 
that perhaps you would tell us about them.” 

Professor Grigg quickly raised his head, and 
looked through his glasses straight before him. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, after a pause, during which 
he was trying to see the speaker, “you are the 
young gentleman from Philadelphia ? I will ex- 
amine you presently. The Accadians ? A very 
interesting people. I have a letter from a dear 
friend, formerly of the University of Leipsic, on 
the same subject. Which of you boys are inter- 
ested in the Accadians ? ” 

“ Me ! ” said Baby Maguire, stepping forward, 
with pride and triumph in every motion. “I 
read about them on the tickets for your lecture. 
You gave them to me, you know.” 

Bob and Faky suddenly moved nearer to the 
table, with the green tickets ostentatiously dis- 
played. 

The professor, who had only partly under- 


144 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


stood Baby Maguire, caught sight of Faky’s 
ticket. 

“I am much obliged to you, my good little 
boy,” he said in a kindly way, “ for your assist- 
ance the other night. And you gave a ticket 
to your friend — this large boy ? What is his 
name?” 

“ Bobert Bently, sir.” 

“ Dear ! dear ! ” said the professor. “ A very 
good name. I regret that I have not yet dis- 
covered the wicked boys who caused me so much 
inconvenience in the sleeping-car.” 

Baby Maguire, amazed at the appearance of the 
green tickets, was hastily searching his pockets. 
He held up his hand. 

“ Please, teacher,” he said to the professor, 
“ those are the wicked boys. I am the only one 
that ought to be talked to about the Accajans.” 

The professor looked at him steadily and 
severely. 

“I fear,” he said, with a frown, “that your 
little friend has a malicious nature, Mr. Bently.” 


THE EXAMINATION. 


145 


XIV. 

THE EXAMINATION. 

Jack’s hands were cold and clammy : he felt 
a sinking at the heart. Xo matter how much 
“fooling” Bob Bently and Faky Dillon might 
go through, the inevitable examination must 
come. If he could only recall the date of George 
Washington’s death, he would have felt better. 
Was it 1132 ? Columbus he knew by heart. He 
ran over several sums in decimals in his mind ; 
and then, jumping into fractions, he began to 
count furiously on his fingers, with an expres- 
sion of agony on his face. 

Baby Maguire’s jaw fell. Thomas Jefferson’s 
fist doubled up. What right had Baby Maguire 
to tell in that way ? He regretted bitterly all 
the opportunities he had neglected, — opportuni- 
ties of forcibly putting better principles into 
Baby’s mean little mind. 

Faky looked at Professor Grigg, quite cool 
and unconcerned. Bob Bently seemed uncertain. 
There was an expression in Professor Grigg’s 
spectacles that made him hesitate, but Baby’s 
last speech about the wicked boys decided him. 

“I am glad,” said Professor Grigg, looking 
sternly at Baby Maguire, “ that you have come to 


146 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


Colonnade House. Your sojourn here will per- 
haps convince you that manliness is one of the 
best rules of life. You have endeavored to ap- 
propriate the favor which I showed to your 
friends ; and not only that, but to fasten upon 
them a misdemeanor of which, to judge by their 
open and innocent faces, I feel that they are in- 
capable — entirely incapable.” 

Faky smiled broadly ; Bob Bently’s conscience 
began to reproach him. After all, fun was fun, 
and Baby certainly was “ nasty ” ; but it would 
not be right to put him “ into a hole,” in which 
he would probably stick for a long time. 

“You gave me the tickets, sir!” said Baby, 
beginning to cry. “ Indeed you did ! I was the 
boy that helped you.” 

The professor shook his head sadly. 

“Your countenance, as well as I can see it, 
shows the depravity working in your heart. I 
begin to suspect that you yourself helped to put 
those slimy and unpleasant objects into my berth 
in the car. Did you or did you not ? Answer 
me ! ” 

Baby looked around him helplessly. And hon- 
est impulses rose in the hearts of Jack and Bob. 
Jack spoke first. 

“ We all did it,” he said. “ Baby was no more 
responsible for it than anybody else. We did 
not mean any harm. You see, the pies and 
things ” 


THE EXAMINATION. 147 

“ Things ! ” said the professor. “ Was there or 
was there not an alligator among them ? ” 

“Oh, no !” said Baby Maguire. “ ¥e didn’t 
have an alligator. There was a boy in the car 
with a young alligator, but we did not put it into 
your berth, sir. We never thought of it.” 

“ I cannot accept your testimony, Master Ma- 
guire. I wish I could. I appreciate the kind 
impulse of your friends to excuse you, but I am 
under the impression that their intention is 
rather more generous than just. However, we 
shall endeavor here at Colonnade House to in- 
culcate more stringent principles of honor and 
honesty.” 

“ These tickets are really his,” said Jack, giving 
Faky’s green lecture tickets to Baby, Bob having 
relinquished his. “ I don’t care to tell how we 
got them, — it was only fun, anyhow. And, if 
you don’t mind, Bob and I will take any punish- 
ment you choose.” 

And Jack was at that moment quite willing to 
take any punishment — except the examination. 

“ There will be no punishment in this case,” 
said Professor Grigg, smiling. “ I judge you by 
your generous though mistaken intentions. As 
for Master Maguire, I shall look after him later.” 

Baby Maguire shivered. 

“ Please, teacher,” he said, holding up his hand, 
“ I have nerves.” 

Professor Grigg frowned so darkly and Baby 


148 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


looked so frightened that Boh could not help 
speaking up. 

“ He was not any more to blame than we were, 
and you did give him the tickets. I think it is 
all nonsense to blame us for an accident. Baby 
is tricky ; I suppose he was born so. I’d like to 
punch his head, — I’ll admit that ; but I don’t like 
to see him frightened half to death. You gave 
him the green tickets, sir.” 

Bob straightened himself, expecting the storm 
to burst. 

“We will not proceed with the examination,” 
said Professor Grigg. “ I shall not attempt at 
once to solve this mystery.” 

“ It is just our luck,” Bob whispered to Faky. 
“We get into scrapes wherever we go.” 

“ I’m sorry,” whispered Faky in reply. “ It’s 
all my fault. But Baby is so sneaky. A fellow 
can’t help doing things when he is about.” 

“ And now, young gentlemen,” began the pro- 
fessor, opening a book, and then falling into ab- 
sent-minded silence, while the boys waited. 

Jack’s memory seemed to desert him, and his 
hands grew colder. When was George Washing- 
ton born? What are the constituents of air? 
Where is the leaning tower of Pisa ? At what 
rate does light travel ? These distracting ques- 
tions kept rushing through his brain, yet he could 
find no answer. He had been able to answer 
them all once. If the bell would ring, — if some- 


THE EXAMINATION. 


149 


thing would happen ! The door opened quickly, 
and Miley Galligan entered. 

“ Please, sir,” he said, with an unabashed air 
that Jack envied, “ I have been sent in for my 
examination.” 

He grinned at his friends, and took his place 
at the head of the line. He wore a brown 
sweater, and his short hair had been parted, evi- 
dently with difficulty, in the middle. 

“ Oh ! Ah ! I see ! ” said Professor Grigg, 
arousing himself. “ I have seen you before, Mas- 
ter Galligan. You are from New York, I be- 
lieve. How is your esteemed relative, Mr. Long- 
worthy ? His last book on 4 Social Problems and 
Poverty ’ has given much pleasure to me.” The 
professor looked at Miley during this little speech 
without at all seeing him. “We will proceed to 
the English examination. What are you reading, 
Master Galligan ? ” 

Miley did not answer at once. His face grew 
very red ; he glared at the boys, and then whis- 
pered threateningly to Faky : 

“ Did you put the old bloke onto me ? ” 

“ I don’t understand such language,” said Faky, 
with great presence of mind. 

“ What are you reading ? ” asked the professor, 
severely. “ Are you deaf, young man ? Have 
you read ‘ Robinson Crusoe,’ by Daniel Defoe ? ” 

“ I don’t read such childish books,” retorted 
Miley. 


150 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“‘Ivanhoe,’ by Sir Walter Scott, has, I pre- 
sume, pleased you ? ” 

“ Never heard of it,” returned Miley. Then in 
a whisper : “ If you fellows have been telling on 
me, I’ll settle you. Why doesn’t he ask me ques- 
tions about ’xamples and g’ography ? This ain’t 
a library : it’s a school.” 

“ Answer me, sir,” said Professor Grigg. 

Miley ’s face grew so red that the big freckles 
on his cheeks and nose turned the color of sunset. 
Jack forgot his anguish in the interest of watch- 
ing him. 

“ What have you been reading ? ” repeated 
Professor Grigg. 

“ It’s out, I suppose,” said Miley, bitterly. He 
began to tug at the ragged mass of paper in his 
left pocket, — a pocket which bulged very much. 
“ I have been reading, ‘ Mole-Eyed Jack ; or, The 
Bunco Man’s Despair.’ There it is ! I’d like to 
know who told ? ” 

Professor Grigg looked at the ragged pamphlet 
on his desk, and lifted it on the point of his long 
paper-cutter close to his glasses. 

“ I am astounded,” he said, “ that any self-re- 
specting boy should fill his mind with such trash. 
I sincerely hope, young gentlemen, that none of 
you reads this sort of — literature.” 

The boys did not reply. Baby Maguire was 
about to testify to his interest in the Accadians, 
when he was cut short by a look from Bob 


THE EXAMINATION. 


151 


Bently. The truth is, they were heartily ashamed 
of Miley ’s taste, — and he was a friend of theirs, 
too ! The pamphlet was soiled and ragged ; and 
on its cover was the picture of a man in a tall 
hat, with a big diamond in his shirt front, stab- 
bing another man with an enormous poniard. 
As the wretched thing lay at the edge of Pro- 
fessor Grigg’s desk, it seemed to the boys as if 
something unclean had entered the room. 

Miley hung his head. He read in the looks of 
the boys that they were ashamed of him. He 
was angry with them, but most of all with him- 
self. He hated the sight of the bundle of soiled 
pages. Under other circumstances, Mile}^ would 
have boasted of his “ smartness ” in reading such 
books as “Mole-Eyed Jack ” and no doubt in cer- 
tain circles he would have been looked upon as a 
hero for knowing a great deal about such vile 
stulf. The shame that showed itself on the faces 
of the boys had more effect on him than any 
number of lectures from grown people would 
have had. 

“ I repeat,” said Professor Grigg, in a kindly 
but serious voice, “ that I hope none of you young 
gentlemen will degrade your minds by reading 
books of so low a description as this.” 

“ There are worse books than that,” said Miley, 
sullenly. 

“ There may be,” said Professor Grigg. “ The 
boy who reads them, deliberately opens his heart 


152 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


to the devil, — deliberately ! This book is not 
wicked : it is only vulgar, — I am sure of that. It 
does not excite you to sin, but it shows how 
4 smart ’ people gain, through all manner of sharp 
tricks, money and everything else they want ; 
doesn’t it ? ” 

Faky’s eyes twinkled and he whispered to Jack : 

“The professor must have read ‘Mole-Eyed 
Jack.’” 

“No,” answered Professor Grigg, with a smile 
that made the boys less afraid of him ; “ but I 
know that kind of book. If I should read it 
aloud to you, and point out its absurdities, you 
would laugh at yourselves for ever having 
looked into it. You wouldn’t think it ‘ smart ’ to 
read such a low and foolish book. Now, Master 
Galligan,” continued the professor, “ since ‘ Mole- 
Eyed Jack ’ is the latest book you have read, sup- 
pose I examine your knowledge of it ? I can, at 
least, tell whether you have a good memory or 
not.” 

Professor Grigg rose at once in the estimation 
of the boys ; he knew how to handle Miley Gal- 
ligan. Miley’s face flushed to the color of a pink 
peony. He observed the grin on the faces of the 
boys, otherwise he would have fled from the 
room. He faced Professor Grigg as boldly as he 
could. 

“ What have you learned from this book ? ” 
asked the professor. 


THE EXAMINATION. 


153 


Miley hesitated. Faky chuckled ; and Miley 
answered : 

“ I dunno.” 

44 Do you recall any passage that interested 
you ? ” asked the examiner. 

“ Yes,” said Miley. “There’s a place where 
Mole-Eyed Jack comes in wid de two revolvers 
and de dagger in his teeth, and says to de Bunco 
Man : 4 Gimme your ill-gotten gains.’ De Bunco 
Man tinks he is a detective, and he gets de Bunco 
Man’s money and has a good time. And den he 
beats de fat old banker at a game of poker, and 
cheats him by keeping tree kings under de table- 
cloth. And when Jimmy de Moke is about to 
run away wid de Eyetalian girl, Jack comes 
from behind de door when his name is men- 
tioned, in a burst of highsterical laughter, and 
says , 4 I’m him.’ And ” 

44 Parse 4 him,’ ” said Professor Grigg. 

Faky laughed aloud, and even Jack smiled. 
Miley did not answer. 

44 You have been wasting your time, Master 
Galligan,” said the professor. 44 If you had as- 
sociated less in your thoughts with such persons 
as the Bunco Man and Jimmy the Moke, you 
might have learned to speak gentlemanly Eng- 
lish. As it is, you will have to choose better 
mental society for the future. Boys,” he added, 
44 you may go to the campus now. Mr. O’Conor 
will find out what your acquirements are during 


154 


JACK CIIUMLEIGH. 


your attendance at his class in the coming week. 
You have, I hope, learned that a boy cannot 
read books or papers of a low type without its 
showing in his speech and even in his actions. 
Go now, and let wholesome air and honest play 
blow off the bad air of 4 Mole-Eyed Jack.’ ” 

The professor buried his spectacles in his book, 
and seemed to forget the boys. 

44 Thank Heaven ! ” said Jack, heartily. 44 We’re 
free for awhile. But I think I’ll like the pro- 
fessor.” 

44 He’s no slouch,” said Miley. 

44 You have been reading 4 Mole-Eyed Jack,’ ” 
began Faky. 44 1 say, what became of the Bunco 
Man ? ” 

Miley rushed at him. Faky dashed into a 
group of boys, and they closed around him. Ho 
allusion was made to Miley’s literary taste after 
that. 


THE FIGHT. 


155 


XV. 

THE FIGHT. 

During the next few days life was full of 
novelty. Faky received a new football from his 
brother Bert ; and Bob Bently’s sisters and 
Selina Butterfield, his cousin, sent him two 
beautiful “ tidies,” — “ which would be so nice for 
the rocking-chairs in your room.” Bob laughed 
when he saw them, and put them hastily into his 
trunk. 

Mr. O’Conor, who had the superintendence of 
the classes under Professor Grigg, soon discovered 
the abilities of the boys ; and Jack found himself 
wafted into the right class without either fear or 
trembling. 

By the time their grey uniforms had been 
made, the boys were quite at home, and Faky 
Dillon had begun to decline “ mensa for Latin 
was the backbone of the school. Faky got on 
better than the rest, because he was fired with a 
desire to write a Latin ode in honor of Susan’s 
birthday. He felt that this would do more to 
keep up his reputation in the Chumleigh kitchen 
than any number of mere English lines. After 
the second day’s work in the declensions he 


156 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


wrote the first line, which showed the extent of 
his knowledge and the estimation in which he 
held Susan. It ran : 

“ Susanna Susannarum.” 

There it stopped for some time. 

The boys did not make friends at first. They 
formed a group of their own, and they were 
quite subdued by the superior knowledge their 
companions showed of the manual of arms. 
Faky pretended to despise the football methods ' 
of Professor Grigg’s boys, but he was obliged to 
confess his admiration for their drilling. Colonel 
Weaver, an old army officer, looked after this. 
He lived in the house next to Father Mirard’s, 
and he regarded drilling as the first duty of 
man. 

Roger O’Mally and Stephen Osborne soon 
made the acquaintance of Jack and Bob. Roger 
had lived in Ireland during most of his life, with 
the exception of a year spent in a Jesuit college 
in England. He and Jack became fast friends. 
Osborne was nearly seventeen years of age, but 
he looked older. He was suspected of delicately 
darkening his upper lip with a burned match 
stick, and his “ West Point waist ” was admired 
by those boys who affected military manners. 
Stephen always talked of the “ mess,” and read 
Captain King’s novels whenever Mr. O’Conor 
permitted him to read anything except a 


THE FIGHT. 157 

“ classic.” lie was captain of the senior division 
of Colonel Weaver’s troops. 

In his heart Bob did not like Osborne ; but he 
had such an air of authority, he knew so much 
of the world, and his “ West Point waist ” gave 
him so much prominence, that Bob overlooked 
many things which he did not tell to Jack. 

Besides Mr. O’Conor there were six other 
tutors, and the boys had not been in the school a 
week before they had made up their minds as to 
the character of each. Guy’s coming had been 
postponed, so they had nothing much to distract 
them from the people about them. 

Faky and Thomas Jefferson and Baby Maguire 
were separated from their elders. They were 
part of the junior squad, and under the direction 
of Mr. Mallony, a young tutor, whom they 
learned to like, for the main reason that he was 
entirely just. 

The boys of the senior department passed 
rapidly from class to class during the day. The 
campus during the drilling hour was in charge of 
Colonel Weaver and his assistant ; after that two 
tutors, proficient in all the games, appeared. 
The elder boys had small rooms in an octagonal 
building behind . the main house ; the small boys 
slept in a large dormitory. Thomas Jefferson 
cried during the first night, but managed to 
answer “ Yes, ma’am ! ” when Mrs. Grigg passed 
through the room on her evening tour of inspec- 


158 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


tion. Faky and Babj^ Maguire were always too 
tired when night came to think of home ; hut 
Thomas Jefferson had tearful visions for a month 
of his father, mother, Susan and the cook, and of 
little Guy, of Uncle Mike, and of all the people 
he liked ; and these visions made his heart sad. 
As the demands of Mr. O’Conor, in his classes, 
increased, and the fury of football became 
greater, Thomas Jefferson dropped to sleep as 
soon as the Rosary had been said, and dreamed 
only pleasant things of the life in Philadelphia. 

By the time Bob had become used to his new 
uniform, and had begun to walk with some of 
Stephen Osborne’s rigidity, a coldness had grown 
up between him and Jack. 

“ Osborne and I,” Bob said, “ are going to 
have a little game of cards over in the grove this 
afternoon, — it’s conge , you know. Come, join 
us.” 

Bob looked very trim ; his white cotton gloves 
were spotless and well-fitting. He stood in the 
hall of the barrack-room, weighing his gun in his 
hand, and assuming the Osborne air as well as he 
could. 

Jack was looking for his knapsack ; for the 
colonel had ordered them out in full regalia. He 
frowned as Bob spoke. 

“ I am much obliged, Bob,” he said ; “ but I 
don’t care for Osborne.” 

“What’s the matter with Osborne?” asked 


THE FIGHT. 


159 


Bob. “ He comes of one of the best families in 
Boston. He is a gentleman, I suppose,” added 
Bob, bitterly. “You object to him because he is 
a gentleman. He can’t help that.” 

Jack felt his temper rising ; so he was silent. 

“ You’ve foolish ideas, Jack, old boy,” con- 
tinued Bob, with an imitation of Osborne’s drawl 
that made Jack feel unreasonably angry — “mad,” 
as he said himself. “ If he happens to have had 
a grandfather, lie can’t help it.” 

“ He can help talking about it so much,” an- 
swered Jack. 

“ If your ancestors were in Longfellow’s 
4 Evangeline,’ you would point them out, wouldn’t 
you? There is no use being jealous of Steve 
Osborne because he has good blood in him.” 

“ I don’t care anything about your old Osborne. 
He has good clothes, if that is what you mean.” 

44 You prefer that scrub O’Mally, that has no 
snap, — a regular Molly ! ” 

u Do I ? ” said Jack, turning away. The sneer 
in Bob’s voice made the tears come very near his 
eyes ; for a moment he could not speak. 

44 Osborne thinks you’re a decent fellow, and 
he says that he has heard of your father in 
Boston. We’re going to form a club — just a few 
of us men, you know, — a sort of club-on-the- 
quiet, you know.” 

44 To play cards ? ” asked Jack. 

“ A little.” 


160 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“But Professor Grigg forbids all card play- 
ing” 

“ He has no right to do it ! ” exclaimed Bob. 
“ Osborne says he’s an old woman, anyhow. At 
home you know that your father or my father 
never objected to card playing.” 

“That’s all right,” said Jack, tightening his 
belt and taking up his musket ; “ but a rule is a 
rule. We’re in Professor Grigg’s house now.” 

“ That’s O’Mally’s opinion,” returned Bob, 
with a sneer modelled after Osborne’s manner. 
“He got that at the Jesuit school, where they 
keep the reins tight.” 

“If you take your opinions from Steve Os- 
borne, that’s no reason why I should take mine 
from anybody,” sa-id Jack, straightening himself 
and awaiting the call of the bugle. 

“You’re jealous, — that’s all!” retorted Bob. 
“You don’t like Osborne because he is my 
friend.” 

“ I don’t like his looks.” 

“ He’s the best-built fellow here. I wish I had 
a figure like his ! ” 

“Pm not talking of that. He’s a dude; he 
thinks more of his waist than he does of his les- 
sons. He’s a peacock, — that’s what he is.” 

“ If anybody else insulted a friend of mine in 
that way, I’d smash his face,” exclaimed Bob, 
reddening to the roots of his hair. 

“Smash!” said Jack. “I’m ready. I know 


THE FIGHT. 


161 


what Osborne’s up to. He wants to play cards 
for money ; and you know it’s wrong for us boys 
to play cards for money or to bet our money.” 

“ What’s wrong about it ? ” asked Bob. 

“ It’s forbidden here, and you know that our 
people at home would be ashamed of us if we 
gambled.” 

Bob shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Philadelphia is a slow place,” he said, sar- 
castically. 

“ And Boston is ‘ so awfully fast ’ ! ” retorted 
Jack. “The old town is good enough for me, 
and I wish I were back there now. I will not 
play cards with you, Bob ; and if I find you get- 
ting Faky or Miley or ” 

“Don’t be afraid. They’re kids. And I 
hardly think Steve Osborne would care to associ- 
ate with Miley Galligan.” 

“ All right ! ” said Jack, trying to look cool. 
“ I’ll stick to Miley Galligan.” 

“Naturally,” said Bob, curling his lip, “you 
prefer Miley to the society of a gentleman like 
Steve. You can’t help it, I suppose.” 

“ I can help gambling.” 

“ Your friend O’Mally prefers to read his 
prayer-book to enjoying himself like a man, and 
you’re welcome to him. He’s a girly-girly hypo- 
crite ; he’s a fake ! ” exclaimed Bob, losing the 
Osborne manner and becoming very much him- 
self. 


162 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“I don’t know what you’re after calling me,” 
said the voice with the brogue from one of the 
curtained recesses in which the boys dressed for 
the games and the drill ; “ but if I’m a fake, 
you’re another.” 

And Roger O’Mally’s curly reddish head ap- 
peared. He put on his cap and advanced to the 
boys. 

“ Listening, of course ! ” said Bob. “ Ho 
gentleman would listen.” 

“ It seems to me you’re talking a great deal 
about gentlemen lately,” said Jack. 

“ Faith, you’re right ! ” added O’Mally ; “ but 
that’s Steve Osborne’s word. He’s always re- 
minding himself when he does anything bad that 
he’s a gentleman, after all ! ” 

44 You let Steve Osborne alone ! ” said Bob, 
threateningly. 

44 1 knew him before you, and I’ll have my say. 
And, more than this, I know that if you and 
Steve Osborne are found out playing cards, you’ll 
be suspended or expelled.” 

44 Osborne says that you’ve been caged up in a 
Jesuit school,” said Bob, sneering again; 44 and 
that you don’t know how gentlemen act in the 
world.” 

44 Steve had better tell me that to my face,” 
answered O’Mally, taking off his gloves. 44 But 
if you want me to act toward you as I’d act to- 
ward him if he said it, just say it again ! ” 


THE FIGHT. 


163 


There was silence. The other boys had gone 
onto the campus, to wait for the call. 

Bob looked into O’Mally’s resolute eyes, and 
his temper rose. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you’re a — a — fake ! ” 

O’Mally threw off his jacket; Bob did the 
same. J ack caught O’Mally by the collar of his 
shirt. 

“ You let me go ! ” yelled O’Mally, struggling. 

Jack measured O’Mally with his eye. He was 
slender and strong. He was in excellent fighting 
trim ; while Bob, like most city boys, was some- 
Avhat flabby. He saw that Bob would have no 
chance. 

“ Here, O’Mally,” he said, “ you let Bob Bently 
alone ! ” 

“ What have you got to say about it ? ” asked 
O’Mally. “You mind your own business ! ” 

At this moment another boy, John Betts, came 
running into the barrack ; he had forgotten his 
gloves. 

“ What’s up ? ” he asked, innocently ; and un- 
happily he stepped between Jack and O’Mally ; 
and the blow which Jack, in his anger, intended 
for his new friend fell on Betts. Before Betts 
could realize what had happened, a three-cornered 
fight was going on over his prostrate form, and 
several oblique fist-blows made him tingle. 

“ Pretty work, young men ! ” said the voice of 
Colonel Weaver, as he looked in at the door. 


164 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Beautiful work ! The guardhouse is the place 
for you.” 

The boys stood up, sobered. Betts preferred 
to remain on the floor, — he was farther from the 
colonel’s eye. 

“ A pretty record you boys are making ! ” he 
said, angrily, to Jack. “ Two fights in as many 
days merit serious punishment.” 


THE PLOT THICKENS. 


165 


XYI. 

THE PLOT THICKENS. 

Faky’s Latin poem was painful. It is hard 
to write a Latin ode when you scarcely know 
the first declension. He had finished the second 
line one afternoon in the study hall, and he was 
beginning a third when the letters were given 
out. 

** Susanna Susannarum, 

Rosa rosarum, 

Puella ” 

He had got this far when he received a letter. 
Guy was on his way, and Jack Chumleigh’s dogs 
had been sent back by a friend in the country 
who had borrowed them. lie ‘waited eagerly 
for the bell to ring for recess, in order to impart 
this news to his friends. 

But Thomas Jefferson had better news, — at 
least, he thought it was better news. Susan an- 
nounced, in a short note, that she and Kebecca 
were packing a box. 

After the fight which had been interrupted by 
the colonel, Jack and Bob had marched on to 
the campus with fear and anger in their hearts. 
There was no doubt that the colonel would re- 


166 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


port them, and they knew that such a report 
meant punishment of some kind. O’Mally, who 
was a good-humored little fellow as a rule, went 
off much offended. 

The drill was usually severe, for it was a hot 
day ; and Jack’s shoulders began to droop in 
spite of himself, and Bob could no longer at- 
tempt to imitate Osborne’s military figure. 

Fighting, especially among the seniors, was a 
crime at Professor Grigg’s school. If a boy 
called another a liar, it was understood that he 
might deal with him with his fists, but not in 
uniform. To be caught fighting in uniform was a 
heinous offence. And to think, Jack said, that 
he should be in such a scrape for quarreling with 
Bob ! And to think that Bob should have taken 
up with Steve Osborne ! 

Jack’s words rankled in Bob’s mind. In his 
heart, he knew that Steve Osborne’s opinions 
and expressions* of them were wrong, and that 
was why he resented Jack’s words. Steve Os- 
borne had said that both he and Jack looked as 
if they had always been tied to their mother’s 
apron strings, and he was ashamed of this. Os- 
borne knew all about the world. He had a 
latch-key when he was at home : he went in and 
out when he chose. He said he knew all the 
theatrical people, and he had a collection of his 
friends in little photographs taken from cigarette 
packages. Bob did not care for these ; he was 


THE PLOT THICKENS. 


107 

immensely interested in the great baseball peo- 
ple, of whom Steve had no pictures, but whom 
he said he knew intimately. Bob admired Steve, 
and at the same time he felt that he would be 
happier if he had not known him. He was flat- 
tered by the attention Osborne showed him. 

In the space of a week Bob had begun to 
change. He was not the same Bob. He did not 
know it, but it was a new Bob that looked on 
the world out of the old Bob’s eyes. The old, 
simple, honest Bob had become something differ- 
ent. Bob’s better self recognized this ; his lower 
self was the slave of Steve Osborne. 

“ I say,” said Osborne, calling from the dress- 
ing-box in the barrack to Jack, after the drill, 
“ do you new boys expect a box from home be- 
fore Thanksgiving ? ” 

Jack pretended to be very busy, and did not 
answer. What business had Osborne to ask such 
a question ? 

“ How about that, Bently ? ” he called out to 
Bob. 

“ Oh, we’ll get a box ! ” said Bob. 

“ I wish it would come. The grub is beastly 
at this school. I’ve been used to different kind 
of things.” 

“ I think you’re a great deal fatter than when 
you came here,” said Roger O’Mally, appearing 
in his ordinary dress. 

“ I wasn’t talking to you, O’Mally. You prob- 


168 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


ably don’t know what good grub is ! ” retorted 
Osborne. 

“ Don’t I ? ” asked O’Mally, coolly. “ Maybe 
not. But I do know that a gentleman — that’s a 
word you’re very fond of — doesn’t grumble about 
food behind people’s back. If the grub doesn’t 
suit you, why don’t you go to Professor or Mrs. 
Grigg ? I would, if I had anything to say.” 

“ If I had my clothes on, I’d settle you ! ” Os- 
borne called out. “ By the way, Bentty, you let 
me in when your box conies, and I’ll divide. My 
aunt always puts a bottle of champagne in my 
box.” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” O’Mally said, ironically, “ and a 
tall hat. Don’t divide, Bently, — you’ll get all 
the froth.” 

“ I’ve half a mind ” — Osborne began, but 
O’Mally had left the room, — “ I’ve half a mind 
to challenge that fellow.” 

Jack laughed out, behind the curtain of his 
dressing-box. Osborne said nothing. 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” asked Bob. 
“ I think we are in trouble enough without going 
further. I’m sure I don’t want any more 
fights.” 

“Ah! what can they do to you?” said Os- 
borne, scoifingly. “They can only expel you. 
Mv aunt wouldn’t care whether I was expelled 
or not. She’d say to me : ‘ Steve, that’s a bad 
school. Old Grigg can’t be a gentleman.’ And 


THE PLOT THICKENS. 


169 


then she’d take me to the theatre, and put me at 
some place where I could have a good time.” 

Jack laughed again. Unluckily, Faky Dillon, 
who had no business in the senior barrack, came 
in search of a baseball glove that he had lent 
O’Mally. He listened to Osborne, a broad grin 
on his face, and then he softly sang : 


“ He’s no Boston man, — mind that ; 
For he’s talking through his hat ! ” 


Faky picked up the glove and ran. Jack laughed 
out ; he could not help it. 

The long barrack was filled with sunshine. 
On two sides were rows of curtained boxes, 
where the students kept their uniforms, baseball 
and football suits, and their rowing things. Be- 
tween every second box there was a big window 
draped with the American flag. The floor was 
bare. At the top and bottom of the room were 
stacks of muskets and pyramids of swords, as 
well as the fifes and drums of the corps. In 
front of each box was a low stool, on which the 
occupant might sit while he put on his shoes and 
socks. Osborne, turning rapidly, knocked over 
his stool, and at once came to the conclusion that 
Faky, in running out, had pushed it from under 
him. It was beneath his dignity to take notice 
of the verses, but here was a cause of offence. 

“ I’ll break that little cad’s neck,” he called 


170 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


out, “if I catch him! I must say, Bently, your 
kid friends don’t seem to have been particularly 
well brought up.” 

Bob did not answer. 

“ That Dillon brute has insulted me. Some- 
body has to give me satisfaction.” 

“/ will,” said Jack. “Faky Dillon is my 
friend. He’s under my care. And if you choose 
to get mad because a little fellow is saucy, you 
can take it out of me.” 

“ What did he knock over my stool for ? ” 

“ He didn’t.” 

J ack emerged from his box ; Osborne, comb 
and brush in hand, did the same. 

“ I demand satisfaction.” 

“You can have just as much of it as you like 
when Professor Grigg is through with me for the 
other fight.” 

Osborne puffed out his chest and looked scorn- 
fully at Jack. 

“ Do you know who I am ? ” he asked, in a 
hoarse whisper. “ I am the grandson of a Hew 
England pirate of noble descent. I must have 
blood ! ” 

“You say much more,” said Jack, “and I’ll 
bring it out of your nose.” 

“ You shall not insult me again. A friend of 
mine will wait on you. I choose swords. To- 
night one of us shall meet his fate.” 

Osborne stalked out of the room. 


THE PLOT THICKENS. 


171 


“ "What does he mean ? ” Jack asked. “ I say, 
Bob, he has been reading too many dime novels.” 

“ Not at all ! ” answered Bob. “ He is a gentle- 
man ; he has a friend at a German college, and they 
settle rows with pistols or steel. He is in earnest.” 

“ He doesn’t think that I am going to do such 
a wicked thing. He’s not such a fool ! ” said 
Jack, amazed. '“ I suppose I’m born to get into 
scrapes. Mr. Mallony told me that you and I 
are summoned to Professor Grigg’s study at four 
o’clock. If he’d expel us, it would break my 
mother’s heart. An expulsion is a black mark 
against a boy all his life. I’ll tell Professor 
Grigg about Steve Osborne’s nonsense. He’ll 
get himself expelled.” 

“ You can’t tell,” said Bob, gloomily. “ The 
boys would be down on you. They hate a boy 
that tells. You shouldn’t have provoked Steve. 
He has an indulgent aunt that worships the 
ground he walks on, and he has pirate blood 
in his veins. If we had something to give him, 
he might forgive you. He forgives very easily, 
if you take him the right way.” 

Jack buttoned his collar carefully, for fear that 
he should lose his temper. 

“You’ve changed, Bob!” he exclaimed; 
“changed! I thought you’d stick by me. I 
don’t care, though. If you think I’m going to 
let any pirate walk over me, you’re mistaken, — 
that’s all ! ” 


172 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


The bell rang. In a few minutes Jack and 
Bob were toiling over their algebra ; and Faky, 
Thomas Jefferson, and Baby were engaged in 
the reading class. 

Jack looked out the window as Mr. Mallony 
expounded the mysteries of the Y’s and X’s, and 
sighed. He wished with all his heart that Bob 
had not changed. He thought of Miss McBride 
with affection. After all, what were the small 
afflictions of her rule to the prospect of a duel ? 
Whom should he consult ? Father Mirard ? Ho : 
it would seem like telling. Miley ? Ho : Miley 
would rush in and make things worse. Oh, if 
little Guy Pierre had only come ! There was 
Roger O’Mally ; he was a new friend, — that was 
the only thing against him. 

A Latin class followed the algebra. Then 
there was a half hour’s conge before tea. Jack 
made at once for Roger, who had gone to an open 
space at the end of the campus to practice with 
quoits, — his set being the only one in the school. 

“ O’Mally,” said Jack, touching his shoulder, 
“ I want your advice.” 

“You’d better go to your friend, Bently,” an- 
swered O’Mally, coldly. 

“ All right ! ” said Jack. “ I would if I could, 
for he’s the best fellow in the world ; though 
Steve Osborne’s got him now.” 

“ I like your spirit,” said O’Mally, balancing 
his quoits. “ What do you want ? ” 


THE PLOT THICKENS. 


173 


“ Osborne has challenged me to fight a duel.” 

O’Mally grinned. 

“ I suppose he’s told his club that he would 
make you welter in your blood, — I know him. 
Are you going to fight ? ” 

“ I’ve never heard of such a thing. It’s 
wrong,” said Jack. “ I admit that I’d like to 
blacken his eye, if I thought that I wouldn’t 
have to tell it in confession ” 

“ Nonsense ! It would be your duty to blacken 
Osborne’s eye,” said O’Mally, “if you had good 
cause. We had an Austrian boy at our school 
abroad, and he was always talking about duels. 
He was a Catholic, too. I don’t see how he 
could have done it. As for Osborne — I wish he 
wasn’t here,” O’Mally continued. “He is for- 
ever making mischief. Faith, are you expecting 
a box ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Jack, — “and a good one.” 

“ You might buy him off. If you fed him, he 
wouldn’t want to fight you.” 

“No,” said Jack. “ I’ll fight him first.” 

“ But you can’t. It’s a mortal sin to fight a 
duel. That’s in theology,” said O’Mally. “ I’m 
going to be a Jesuit some day, and I have to 
look up these things. It’s all in the intention.” 

“A mortal sin?” asked Jack, his cheeks pal- 
ing. 

“ That’s the ticket ! ” said the young theolo- 
gian, watching him closely. “You’ll have to tell 


174 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


him that he can have half your next box for his 
club. He’ll be as sweet as pie.” 

“I’ll not do it !” said Jack. “I’ll go” — here 
his voice broke, as he saw himself in his imagina- 
tion, blood running from various holes in his 
body — “ and let myself be slashed to pieces. I 
won’t hit back ; I’ll let him carve me. Then 
Bob will be sorry for having taken up with that 
Osborne.” 

O’Mally laughed ; J ack looked at him reproach- 
fully. 

“ Oho ! What’s this ? ” 

Miley Galligan handed Jack a folded piece of 
paper. He opened it, and read : 

“ Master Stephen Osborne will send his second 
to arrange with Master J. Chumleigh. Master 
J. Chumleigh will please name a friend. Swords. 
To-night, in the apple orchard, at nine o’clock. 
Blood ! ” 

Jack gave the note to O’Mally. 

“ I’m your man ! ” said O’Mally. 

“ Let me read it,” said Miley. 

“ All right ! ” Jack answered, giving Miley the 
note. 

Miley began a sort of war-dance. 

“ It’s great ! ” he said. “ It’s like the juel in 
4 The Fakir of Broadway ; or, Why He Killed 
Him.’ I don’t think he’s spelled 4 blood ’ right. 
I’ve always spelled it 4 b-l-u-d.’ It’s more terri- 
ble like.” 


jack’s second. 


175 


XVII. 

jack’s second. 

Miley’s outburst was met with silence. 
O’Mally looked uncomfortable. He was having 
second thoughts. 

“I don’t know, Jack, whether I can help you 
or not,” he said. “ The whole thing is foolish or 
bad. Duelling is a sin, so is prize-fighting. If 
Steve Osborne means to hurt you, the thing’s 
bad, and I’ll not have anything to do with it. 
Besides, it’s no fun to sneak out at nine o’clock, 
and perhaps be caught.” 

“He can’t mean it,” answered Jack. “He’s 
just trying to frighten me.” 

“Hot at all,” said O’Mally. “He thinks it is 
a fine thing to fight.” 

“But suppose we killed each other?” asked 
Jack, aghast. “ Or he killed me ? ” 

“ His honor would be satisfied,” said O’Mally. 
“You’ll have to excuse me, Jack. I’m against 
this sort of thing. You just write to him and 
tell him that he talks nonsense, and that you’ll 
not be mixed up in such foolishness.” 

“ I’ll go and tell him for you,” said Miley. 
“ He is over there playing pitch-and-catch with 
John Betts. There’s fire in his eye.” 


176 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ I could go and tell Mrs. Grigg, and stop it 
all,” said Eoger O’Mally ; “ but the boys would 
find it out and lead me a dog’s life. You’ll have 
to drop out of it some way.” 

“ If it is a sin to fight a duel, I’ll not fight,” 
said Jack. “ I can’t tell, because the boys will 
call me a sneak. If I back out, everybody will 
believe that I am a coward. I wish I knew what 
to do.” 

O’Mally stood with his hands in his pockets ; 
he had no advice to offer. 

“If it wasn’t a sin, would you like to fight 
him ? ” asked Miley, insidiously. 

“Yes, I would,” said Jack, his eyes flashing. 
“ I’d like to teach him a lesson. I wouldn’t hurt 
him much ; but I’d cut a little triangle out of 
him, to show him that I’m not afraid.” 

“ Aha ! ” chuckled Miley, grinning. His eyes 
fairly twinkled ; his head, barely visible above 
the big “ sweater ” he wore, nodded and bobbed. 
“ You’re not afraid of him, are you ? ” he asked, 
softly. “ I thought you were at first. You’d 
chew him up if he gave you much sass, wouldn’t 
you ? ” 

“Yes, I would,” said Jack, his temper rising. 
“ Talk about swords ! You should see my uncle 
fence. He taught me. If it wasn’t wrong, I’d 
settle Steve Osborne.” 

“ I’d like to settle Steve Osborne myself, if I 
was big enough,” said Miley. “ He’s a bad egg, 


jack’s second. 


177 


and tlie other fellows are afraid of him. Look — 
they don’t dare come near us. Isn’t that mean ? ” 

This was true. Steve Osborne had obtained 
control over most of the seniors. They were not 
fond of him : he overawed them by his apparent 
knowledge of the world, and they were afraid of 
his sneers. 

“ O’Mally, stay with Jack,” Miley said. “ We’ll 
show them he has some friends. The bell will 
not ring for a while yet ; I’ll just go up and try 
to bring him to his senses.” 

Jack and O’Mally resumed the game of quoits 
in silence. Miley, with his bicycle cap back on 
his head, marched toward Steve, who had ceased 
to play ball, and was now the centre of an admir- 
ing group. 

“ I can’t drink more than three bottles of beer, 
you know,” he was saying, “ without its going to 
my head, and ” 

“ Halloo, Osborne ! ” called Miley. “ We know 
all about that. I want to talk to you.” 

There was silence. Miley’s manner of address- 
ing Osborne was looked on as a grave imperti- 
nence. Osborne’s little court watched anxiously 
to see what the great personage would do. 

“ Do you want your head blown off before you 
know where you are, kid ? ” asked Osborne. 

“ Hot particularly,” answered Miley. “ I don’t 
want any foolish talk. I’ve come to represent 
Jack Chumleigh.” 


178 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Oh ! you have, have you ? ” Osborne glanced 
scornfully at Miley, and then turned to his neigh- 
bors. They all broke into laughter. 

Miley grinned pleasantly. 

“I want to say that Jack thinks you’d better 
not light with swords.” 

“When / light, I light like a gentleman,” said 
Steve, straightening himself up. “ I don’t back 
out. But if Jack Chumleigh will give up all the 
spending money he has to the club, and promise 
us the first chance at his box when it comes, I’ll 
say nothing more.” 

Bob Bently stepped back. He did not like 
this. He felt that he ought to stand up for his 
friend. There were at least fifteen boys around 
Steve, apparently all in sympathy with him. 
John Betts, who, like Miley, had recently been 
promoted to the senior department, stopped 
catching his ball and looked indignant. The 
rest laughed ; and one boy said in a loud tone, so 
as to be heard by Steve : 

“ That’s Osborne every time ! ” 

Osborne condescended to smile at the cham- 
pion. Bently was heartily ashamed of himself, 
and his shame turned to anger as he saw the 
eyes of Miley and John Betts fixed on him. 

“ It isn’t their business,” thought Bob, “ if I 
don’t speak up for Jack. Let Jack depend on 
his new friend, O’Mally.” 

The boys closed around Miley. 


jack’s second. 179 

“ There’ll be fun ! ” whispered Riley. “ See 
how Steve will eat up this little shaver ! ” 

“Fair play!” called out John Betts, coining 
close to Miley. 

Bob would have given a great deal to have 
followed his example, but Steve Osborne’s satir- 
ical eye was on him. He did not move. 

“Well,” said Miley, smiling with much sweet- 
ness, showing the large piece of gold which 
had replaced a front tooth knocked out at foot- 
ball, “ I’m here to talk, and I’m going to talk. 
And Mr. Steve Osborne can’t frighten me ,” he 
added, with a glance at Bob. “ There are folks 
here that seem to me to be mighty white-liv- 
ered.” 

Several boys made a rush at Miley. 

“ Stand off ! ” cried J ohn Betts. 

“ Oh, let ’em come ! ” Miley said, calmly. “ I’ll 
leave my marks on somebody. Let ’em come ! 
You won’t? Ho? Well, I know what I am 
going to say is in confidence. And if Professor 
or Mrs. Grigg hears it, it will be one of yous 
that will tell, and I’ll find out who it is. This is 
a sacred confidence. ‘ Around you,’ as Richeloo 
says in the play, ‘ I draw the secret circle of the 
truth.’ Do you mind that ? Well, I have come 
to say this : Mr. Osborne there wants to fight a 
juel with swords — to-night.” 

Osborne straightened himself. 

“It needn’t take place,” he said, “if Jack 


180 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Chumleigh will make the proper terms. That’s 
the decision of the club.” 

“ It is ! ” said Riley. 

“ It is ! It is ! ” responded the other members 
of the club. 

“ Done ! ” said Miley, sticking his fingers into 
the armholes of his sweater and assuming a noble 
attitude. “My principal will not make terms. 
Either Jack Chumleigh or Steve Osborne is got 
to lead this school, and we’re going to decide it 
to-night. Are ye all good men and true ? ” 

Riley almost bent double with laughter. The 
rest, except Bob, joined in ; even Betts roared at 
Miley’s impudence. Miley simply winked. 

“ On similar occasions,” said Miley, calmly, 
“I have seldom embrued my hands in blood, 
though I could tell you little things that might 
change the shape of your faces. What I want 
to say is in the way of a warning. Jack Chum- 
leigh’s grandfather wasn’t a pirate, but Jack’s 
uncle is the chain peen fencer of the United 
States. And he’s taught Jack until Jack is as 
fine as a hair. Is this true, Bob Bently ? Didn’t 
Jack’s uncle teach him how to use a sword ? ” 

“A foil — yes,” said Bob, reluctantly. “Jack 
has been well taught.” 

There was a movement among Steve’s sup- 
porters. 

“ Personally,” Miley continued, “ I like fists. 
But when a boy challenges a gentl’man to a 


jack’s second. 


181 


game of bluff, I’m with the gentl’man ‘every 
time,’ as my noble friend on the right recently 
remarked. We won’t give up our spending 
money ; we won’t divide our grub ; but we’ll 
fight it out. That is, I’m afraid that Jack, who 
can fence, might kill Osborne, and that would 
send his aunt in sorrow to the grave. But — 
hear me, gentl’men , — I will fight Steve with 
pistols at nine sharp. I don’t say that I can 
shoot with him, — I have never knocked over 
more then ten stuffed figures in succession at 
Coney Island,” said Miley, modestly ; “ and I’m 
a little out of practice. So I thought that Steve 
or some of his friends might fight me instead of 
Jack ; because Jack’s an expert, you know. He 
wouldn’t kill Steve for the world.” 

“ Professor Grigg ought to be told ! ” exclaimed 
Riley. “ Miley Galligan is no better than a 
murderer.” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Miley, “ tell ! But the man 
that tells will have to fight me to the bitter end. 
I will tr-r-r-r-ack him ! ” 

John Betts turned away, to hide a grin. But 
Miley looked so much in earnest, and had such 
an air of assertion, that Steve Osborne’s staff 
seemed uneasy. 

“It wouldn’t be right to tell,” said Philip 
Burghey, a silent boy, who was too indolent to 
oppose Osborne. 

“Yes, it would,” retorted Riley, “if it is a 


182 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


question of preventing bloodshed. Professor 
Grigg doesn’t expect us to tell on one another, 
except where there is some injury or danger. 
These new boys are nothing better than blood- 
thirsty ” 

Miley took a dingy pad from beneath his 
sweater, and wrote rapidly with the stump of a 
lead-pencil. 

“ What’s your first name, Mr. Kiley ? I’ll 
look after you when I’ve polished off Osborne,” 
he said. “ I’m not much of a shot,” he added, 
with a sigh ; “ but I’ll do my best. So you’ll 
tell, will you ? And you’ll tell that Steve Os- 
borne began it, hey ? Will you ? Of course 
you’ll tell the truth. Oh, you’ll tell ! ” 

“Go it, Miley!” whispered John Betts, ap- 
provingly. 

“ Now,” said Miley, pulling up his sweater till 
it covered the tips of his ears, “ here’s our grand 
jtnaly , — the great song and dance at the end. 
Osborne will fight me or tell ! ” 

“We were only in fun, anyhow,” said Steve, 
uneasily. “ If you go and show Professor Grigg 
that note ” 

“ Oh, come ! No threats ! ” said Miley. “Will 
you fight or tell ? ” 

“We just wanted to frighten Chumleigh, — 
that’s all,” said Osborne. “ He’s a new boy, you 
know ; and new boys have got to stand things.” 

“ Will you fight or tell ? ” repeated Miley. 


jack’s second. 


183 


Steve Osborne looked at his staff. 

Riley and Philip Burghey and four others sud- 
denly started a game of pitch-and-catch. Bob 
Bently felt more ashamed of himself and more an- 
gry with Miley than ever. But he did not move. 

“ I call this a nasty trick ! ” exclaimed Osborne, 
in a querulous voice. “ A gentleman demands 
satisfaction and expects an apology, and writes a 
note in fun ; and a lot of murderers come up to 
put him in a false position ! I say, fellows, let’s 
boycott them.” 

There was no reply. 

“ Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Miley. 
“ I’ll communicate with my principal, and ask 
him to take fifty cents from each member of the 
club, and half the grub-boxes of each one that 
gets a box at Thanksgiving. Is it a go ? ” 

Steve Osborne, greatly flushed, turned to the 
circle around him. He consulted with them. 

“ And I’m to have my pick of the first turkey 
that comes ? ” added Miley. 

“ It’s a mean trick,” said Osborne, — “ a mean, 
low-down, murderous trick ; but have your 
way ! ” 

He left his friends and walked off. 

“ Our honor is satisfied,” said Miley, with 
dignity. “I say, fellows,” he added, with a 
chuckle, “I don’t think Osborne’s grandfather 
was much of a pirate.” 

The bell rang. 


184 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


XVIII. 

guy’s news. 

No sooner was it known that Miley had 
bearded the great Osborne in the very centre of 
the club than there was a sensation in the school. 
The startling rumor ran along the tables of the 
refectory, and in a very short time there was 
scarcely a junior who believed that Steve Os- 
borne’s grandfather had ever been a pirate. 
Three hours before he had been the idol of the 
school. His cleverness, his power in the athletic 
meetings, the great “ runs ” he had made on the 
u diamond ” when he was in Boston, his muscle, 
his knowledge of the manual of arms, had been 
celebrated until they became more important 
facts in the minds of many of the boys than any- 
thing chronicled in history. 

Mr. O’Conor, who sat at the head of one of the 
senior tables, caught rumors of the change, and 
he smiled. He was glad to see the influence of 
Steve Osborne broken ; but he could not help 
saying to Professor Grigg that evening as he 
made his report : 

“ Taken singly, boys are good fellows. They 
have hearts, and they are loyal and open to 
sympathy ; and I’m sure they’d rather do right 


guy’s news. 


185 


than wrong. But in crowds they are as un- 
reasonable as men.” 

The professor awoke from a deep study. 

“ Oh, yes ! — what did you say ? Oh, yes ! we 
must manage them in squads, just like machines. 
There is nothing like it. Look at that Osborne, 
— fine, manly fellow. By the way, Chumleigh 
and three or four other boys are reported for 
fighting in uniform. Look into it, — it’s bad.” 

Mr. O’Conor promised, and later got their 
sentence from the colonel. 

After supper Miley found Jack walking, by 
special permission, with Faky Dillon and Thomas 
Jefferson on the junior side. Mr. O’Conor had 
sent him to take a message to one of the juniors, 
and he stopped to congratulate Jack. 

“Well, kid,” he said, jocularly, “the juel’s off. 
It’s a cold day when Miley Galligan is bluffed.” 

“We don’t talk slang in the juniors,” said 
Faky, gravely. “You will discover that your 
miscellaneous conversation is uncomprehended in 
the higher circles of the school.” 

Miley opened his eyes. 

“ Don’t you go jollying me, kid ! ” 

“ Being unable to discover what your ultimate 
intention is, I cannot investigate its meaning,” 
answered Faky. 

“ It is incompatible with our mental halluci- 
nations,” said Thomas Jefferson, observing Faky’s 
wink. 


186 


JACK CHUMLEIG1I. 


“ What are you giving — ” began Miley. 

“ Idioms we are capable of,” said Faky. “ Slang 
is obnoxious. The seniors may indulge them- 
selves in such conversation, we have no use for it.” 

“I am with you ! ” said Thomas Jefferson. 

“You’d better take that chewing-gum out of 
your mouth before you put on airs ! ” cried Miley, 
indignantly. 

Faky and Thomas Jefferson laughed. 

“ You’d have fared better on our side,” said 
Faky. “Father Mirard has asked us for dinner 
to-morrow night, — that is, the six best juniors. 
You’re treated like men on this side.” 

“We are men on our side,” said Miley. “I 
say, Jack, the juel’s off. And we’ll loot the club. 
They’ve got to give us a lot of money for not 
telling or not lighting. Steve’s gone under. I’ve 
fixed him.” 

“How did you do it?” asked Faky, in ad- 
miration. 

“As far as I am concerned,” said Jack, “I 
don’t want Osborne’s money or anything of his 
or his friends. I want them to let me alone, — 
that’s all.” 

“ Osborne’s a fraud,” said Miley. 

“I will say nothing against any boy behind 
his back,” said Jack. “ If I have ever done it, 
I’m sorry for it, and I’ll never do it again. 
When I get a chance, I’ll tell Osborne what I 
think before his face.” 


guy’s news. 


187 


Faky and Thomas Jefferson looked at Jack 
with admiration, but they wanted to hear what 
Miley had to say. 

“ Osborne’s out, at any rate,” said Miley ; “ and 
I’m going to run this school. Any bad boy can 
fool a lot of good boys into following him, if he 
knows how. I’ll tell you why,” added Miley, 
linking his arms in Jack’s. “Boys can’t tell 
things : they have to keep a lot of things quiet ; 
and the bad boy, if he can talk well, can make 
’em believe all sorts of things that they can’t tell 
to older people. Boys suffer a great deal that 
way. I suffered myself when I was young.” 

Faky uttered a shriek of laughter, in which 
Thomas Jefferson joined. 

Miley turned his back to them. 

“ Cheer up, Jack ! ” he said. 

“ I just want to be let alone,” said Jack. “ I’m 
thankful to you, Miley, for getting me out of the 
scrape, though I don’t know how you’ve done it. 
But I am not going to begin here by crowing 
over people or abusing them. I want to keep 
out of Steve Osborne’s way,— that’s all. I’ve 
been thinking it all over, and I’ve made up my 
mind to keep the rules and work — after Pro- 
fessor Grigg has settled with me for fighting in 
uniform.” 

Miley was disappointed. He had expected Jack 
to be jubilant over the victory. But he found him 
inclined, as Miley said to himself, “ to preach.” 


188 


JACK CHITMLEIGH. 


Jack suddenly found himself deserted. 

Faky and Thomas Jefferson were determined 
to hear Miley’s account of the interview between 
Steve Osborne and himself. And while Jack 
walked around the campus he heard them talk- 
ing and laughing. 

“ It’s hard to be good,” he said to himself. 
“ Just because I try to be good, I lose my best 
friend, Bob Bently ; and my own brother drops 
me to take up with Miley Galligan.” 

Jack walked hastily toward the seniors’ ground, 
his hands behind his back. He could not help 
thinking that he was like Napoleon at St. Hel- 
ena. He pitied himself very much, and there 
was some consolation in this. 

Miley caught up with him. 

“ You don’t mean to say that you’re not going 
to loot Steve Osborne’s club when their boxes 
come ? ” he inquired, seriously. 

“ Yes, I do.” 

“I call that mean,” said Miley. “After all 
the trouble I’ve taken ! That club would have 
broken us all up, if it could.” 

“ If Osborne lets me alone, I’ll let him alone,” 
replied Jack. “After what I went through at 
home last year, I determined to do just what 
was near me, and never mind the rest. I haven’t 
been here any time at all when things begin to 
bob up against me. I’m not going to meddle in 
other folks’ affairs, or do anything to anybody.” 


guy’s news. 


189 


Miley whistled. 

“I am going to get what I can out of Os- 
borne,” said Miley, firmly. “ I don’t see why I 
shouldn’t run this department.” 

The bell for study rang. The boys formed 
into ranks, — Jack pairing with Riley, in a very 
depressed state of mind. 

On the following day the sentences were an- 
nounced, and Jack found himself deprived of his 
pocket-money for two weeks, put on guard duty 
for a week, and presented with thirty demerits 
for fighting in uniform. 

The week passed, and the Wednesday of 
another week came, and with it Uncle Mike and 
Guy. 

J ack was thankful that he was not on guard 
duty the second week. Guard duty consisted in 
walking up and down on the bluff overlooking 
the railway during recess. There the soldier in 
punishment had a full view of all the sports going 
on, but he could not join in them. Nothing 
could be more exasperating. The others con- 
cerned in the fight Avere punished, too ; but for 
some reason or other, Professor Grigg held Jack 
to be the greatest offender. 

Jack bore his exile with patience. The de- 
merits were hard to bear ; for they meant sus- 
pension at Christmas, if they were not worked 
off by exemplary good conduct. 

But when Guy came, Jack almost forgot all 


190 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


his woes. Faky brought the news while Jack 
was playing a game of quoits with John Betts, — 
Mrs. Grigg had sent him. He did not wait for 
Jack to say anything, but rushed off like the 
wind to tell Baby Maguire and Thomas Jeffer- 
son. 

Riley was passing; and, in his excitement, 
Jack called to him : 

“Say, will you tell Bob Bently that Mrs. 
Grigg wants him ? ” 

As Riley was on his way to the barrack, and 
Jack was in a great hurry to get to Guy, it was 
natural enough that he should give this message. 
Riley, however, was of Osborne’s club, and not 
anxious to be polite to Jack. 

“ Why don’t you tell Bob yourself ? Isn’t he 
a friend of yours any more ? ” Riley demanded. 

“ I’m a friend of his, but I’m not sure whether 
he’s a friend of mine,” replied Jack. “ If he likes 
your crowd better, I can’t help it. I’ll tell him 
myself, — you needn’t mind.” 

“ Oh, I’ll tell him ! ” cried Riley, as he mounted 
his wheel. “Bob,” he called out, “Mrs. Grigg 
wants to see you.” 

“ About what ? ” asked Bob, who was taking 
off his football clothes. 

“ Oh, I don’t know ! Jack Chumleigh told me 
to tell you.” 

“ Why couldn’t he tell me himself ? ” 

“He didn’t care to speak to you, I suppose. 


guy’s news. 191 

lie said that if you liked our crowd, we could 
keep you.” 

Bob flushed to the roots of his hair. 

“He did, did he? Jack Chumleigh said that, 
did he ? All right ! If he doesn’t want to speak 
to me, I guess I can do without him. Why, 
Biley, you don’t know what friends we have 
been. So he won’t speak to me ? All right ! ” 

Riley was delighted. He was a narrow- 
minded and selfish boy. He wanted to be first 
with everybody. Steve Osborne managed him 
b} T constant flattery, and occasionally by bully- 
ing. 

“ You’ll find out that old friends are not always 
the best,” said Riley. “ I could tell you other 
things Steve Osborne heard him say, — but you 
never mind. I’ll stick up for you every time.” 

This did not give Bob much consolation. He 
got into his clothes and ran off toward the house. 
Jack was going up the steps as he reached them. 

“Halloo, Bob!” Jack began, eagerly. But 
Bob straightened himself up, and went by with- 
out looking toward him. 

Guy sat on the sofa in the smaller parlor, which 
was the special property of Mrs. Grigg, and into 
which the boys were seldom admitted. Mrs. 
Grigg and her youngest son, Timothy Grigg, 
were seated on either side of Guy ; and it was 
evident that they were both interested in him. 
Opposite to them, bolt-upright on a chair, was 


192 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Uncle Mike. His tall hat, slightly out of date, 
but much polished with kerosene, was held stiffly 
in his hand. His frock-coat was new and black, 
and his cutfs were very prominent. 

Faky and Thomas Jefferson and Miley, who 
stood near the sofa, beaming with delight, were 
proud of Uncle Mike. 

“Mrs. Grigg can see,” whispered Miley to 
Faky, “that our relatives are no slouches.” 

At this moment Uncle Mike added to the effect 
unconsciously by pulling out of his back pocket 
a crimson silk handkerchief, so rich and large 
that Miley could hardly restrain a whistle of ad- 
miration. 

Nevertheless, Uncle Mike looked pale and worn. 
He seemed glad to see the boys, — very glad ; but 
he sighed heavily as he greeted them. 

“ It does my heart good,” he said, with another 
sigh, “ to find you all looking so round and rosy.” 

Guy blushed and his eyes sparkled. 

“ O Jack ! O Bob ! ” he said, holding a hand of 
each of them, “we’re in great trouble. Uncle 
Mike is ruined, and we don’t know what to do.” 


A WAY OUT. 


193 


XIX. 

A WAY OUT. 

Ho one spoke. Uncle Mike’s hands trembled ; 
and Mrs. Grigg, being a woman, thought of the 
most gracious and simplest thing possible : she 
took Uncle Mike’s hat from him. 

“ Thank you, ma’am ! ” he said, gratefully. 
“ Oh, thank you ! ” 

The hat had been on Uncle Mike’s mind, and 
Mrs. Grigg’s politeness recalled him to himself. 

“ Everything is going to go,” he said. “ I hate 
to spoil our meeting with my cares and diffi- 
culties,” he added, with a sigh ; “ but I know that 
my wife and I are dear to you all. You’ve been 
with us in joy, and you’ll not desert us in sor- 
row.” 

The boys did not speak ; their whole souls 
were intent on Uncle Mike. 

“ ’Twas my foolishness in signing a note for a 
friend. Sure the boy was from the same place 
as myself, and I couldn’t refuse. But he hasn’t 
the money to pay, and all I’ve got must go. It’s 
not for myself I mind, but for the old woman, — 
my wife, begging your pardon ! ” 

Here Uncle Mike’s voice broke. 


194 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Miley felt a lump in his throat. 

“What makes it so hot in here ? ” he whispered 
angrily to Faky. 

But Faky, seeing the moisture in his own eye 
reflected in Miley’s, understood, and forbore to 
answer. 

“I didn’t intend to tell you at once,” said 
Uncle Mike ; “ but Guy let it out. It’s true, 
though, that soon we’ll not have a roof over our 
heads ; so I’m thankful Guy has come to school.” 

“You mustn’t let your uncle talk any more, 
boys,” said Mrs. Grigg, “ until he gets a cup of 
tea.” 

“He’s not our uncle,” answered Baby Ma- 
guire ; “ he’s ” 

“He’s our uncle now” said Faky Dillon. 
“ We’ll adopt him ; and,” he added to Baby, in a 
hoarse whisper, “if you say he isn’t, I’ll settle 
with you, — that’s all ! ” 

Baby did not answer. 

“Well, Uncle Mike,” interposed Jack, “you 
just have your tea. Things are never so bad as 
they seem when we’re tired after a long journey.” 

“I don’t know, boys, — I don’t know,” said 
Uncle Mike, with a sigh. “ The times are hard, 
too, or they’d be those that could help me. But 
there’s always God between us and the door.” 

“We must find a way out,” began Guy, sol- 
emnly. “ M. Pierre is — I don’t know where, so 
I can’t appeal to him.” 


A WAY OUT. 


195 


“We can sell our bicycles,” remarked Thomas 
Jefferson. 

“ Thank you, one and all ! ” said Uncle Mike ; 
“ but it wouldn’t help. No, boys. Let us be 
thankful that little Guy here is safe, with a roof 
over his head and plenty to eat.” 

“I must scold you all,” said Mrs. Grigg, “for 
letting your uncle talk so much before he had his 
tea. Run, Timothy, and tell Mr. O’Conor that 
all these boys will have supper with their uncle 
in the little tea-room.” 

“It’s very kind you are, ma’am,” said Uncle 
Mike, straightening himself with an effort ; he 
had grown older and more careworn since the 
boys had last seen him. 

For a time Jack and Bob forgot their misun- 
derstanding. As they followed Uncle Mike and 
Mrs. Grigg to the tea-room, Jack had to speak. 

“ It’s awful, isn’t it, Bob ? ” 

“ I should say so. I wonder if your father or 
mine can help him ? ” 

“ I’m afraid not,” replied Jack. “ I heard 
father say that things were all wrong this year, 
and he’d have a hard pull to keep us at school.” 

“ Cook will be in a bad way about this,” re- 
marked Baby to Thomas Jefferson. “ I suppose 
she’ll go and forget our box.” 

Miley said nothing. His forehead was wrin- 
kled up from thought ; he shaped his mouth to 
whistle, and then restrained himself. 


196 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ I wonder if I could sell my collection of 
stamps for anything worth having?” said Faky, 
who looked very serious. “ I wonder if I could ? ” 

Thomas Jefferson had no time to answer; for 
he observed that there was pineapple jelly on 
the tea-table, and that Mrs. Grigg was saying 
grace. 

Uncle Mike became more cheerful as the meal 
progressed, and the hectic flush of fatigue and 
nervousness died out of Guy’s cheeks. Professor 
Grigg came in somewhat late. He had just fin- 
ished writing his lectures on “The Pre-Acca- 
dians,” and he created a sensation by attempting 
to drink from the sugar-bowl, and then, in con- 
fusion, seizing Bob’s teacup just as if it were his 
own. Faky Dillon almost choked himself in 
trying to keep from giggling. Timothy Grigg 
gravely rose to his feet and set his father right. 

“ He is so absent-minded ! ” said Mrs. Grigg. 
“ He is wrapped up at present in the pre- Adamite 
ages.” 

“ Dear ! dear ! ” said Uncle Mike, sympathetic- 
ally. “I was never fond of them deep things 
myself. They do be bad for the mind. We all 
have our own troubles, ma’am,” he added. 

Mrs. Grigg smiled without understanding Uncle 
Mike’s sympathy. 

“ Ho, dear,” she said to her husband across the 
table, “ that is not salt, it’s pepper.” 

But the pre-Accadians had done their work, 


A WAY OUT. 


197 


and Professor Grigg had blackened his lettuce 
with pepper. 

“ May I ask,” said the professor, when he had 
sneezed several times, and Timothy had found 
another plate for him, “if the relative of my 
young friend believes that the classics rather than 
mathematics should be the basis of education ? ” 

Faky Dillon observed Uncle Mike’s embarrass- 
ment, and he responded at once to his whisper : 

“Answer for me, boy. Them that learning 
makes mad you must humor.” 

Now, Professor Grigg was simply being polite ; 
his thoughts were with the pre-Accadians, and 
his eyes fixed on vacancy. 

“ I think,” spoke up Faky — and his impudence 
made Bob and Jack shudder, — “ that the Koman 
Empire merely existed that we might learn to 
know and love the Latin tongue.” 

“ Remarkable ! remarkable ! ” said Professor 
Grigg, waking up. “ I made the same remark to 
the juniors the other day, and I am pleased, sir, 
that, by an unconscious concord of minds, we 
have come to the same conclusion. I am de- 
lighted to meet you at my table, sir. We shall 
have a conversation after tea on the Horatian 
metres, with which you are no doubt familiar.” 

Uncle Mike blushed to the roots of his hair. 
Timothy Grigg resolved that he would “do” 
Faky Dillon for this, and Mrs. Grigg pretended 
not to notice the episode. 


198 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Jack tried to engage Uncle Mike in conversa- 
tion, so that Professor Grigg might be warded 
off ; but the professor, waking up again, deter- 
mined to be polite. 

“ I may observe, my dear friend, that life must 
have been at its best when everywhere one heard 
the sonorous Latin tongue about one.” 

Uncle Mike blushed deeply and looked un- 
happy. 

“ I don’t see how the old Romans had time for 
any work, if they had to tinker over the declen- 
sions and conjugations,” said Faky, frankly. “ It 
must have been a great waste of time.” 

Professor Grigg awoke in earnest. 

“ You surprise me, sir,” he said, stiffly. “ By 
the way, Mrs. Grigg, you have not presented me 
to our guest.” 

“ It’s Uncle Mike,” put in Faky; “and he 
doesn’t care about Latin, — he’s in the grocery 
business.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Professor Grigg. “ I found his 
first remark so appropriate that I fancied he was 
interested in pedagogics.” 

“ No, thank you,” said Uncle Mike, modestly ; 
“ I am not acquainted with them.” 

After this Professor Grigg was silent; he 
withdrew from the world about him, and re- 
turned, in his mind, to his beloved Accadians and 
Scythians. 

Guy was eager to begin work at once. He 


A WAY OUT. 


199 


confided to Jack that he had determined to be- 
come a great artist or write books. 

u Of course,” he said, “ I never intend to be a 
poet, like Faky, you know. You have to be a 
genius to be that. But as soon as I get my edu- 
cation, I shall try to make money for Uncle 
Mike ; so I’d like to begin at once.” 

He was strong enough to go to the classes, and 
during the recess time he sat under a tree at the 
edge of the campus and watched the other boys 
play. Uncle Mike, who had come to spend three 
days, stayed with him. 

On the evening of the second, before the study 
bell rang, the boys had a serious talk over Uncle 
Mike’s misfortune. Bob had discovered that the 
debt which was hanging over him amounted to 
about two thousand dollars. Uncle Mike had 
still three weeks in which to raise it. Jack and 
Bob, forgetting their coldness for the present, 
argued over ways and means. Thomas Jefferson 
suggested that Faky should collect his poems, to 
sell them for the benefit of Uncle Mike. To 
which Faky, instead of growing angry, replied : 

“ Envy is green 

As the leaf on the tree, 

So don’t you go poking 
Such jokes upon me.” 


“ Don’t be worrying, boys,” Uncle Mike said, 
after the heated debate was done. “ It’s little 


200 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


good you can do me. The wife and I must just 
begin over again, — though it’s a cozy place we 
have, and ’twill go hard to part with it.” 

“ I’m afraid we can’t be of much use,” replied 
Jack, with a sigh. 

“Something may turn up,” said Uncle Mike. 
“ There’s no telling ; though I don’t see much 
chance of it. Still, God’s always between us and 
the door.” 

“We can do one thing,” observed Guy, sud- 
denly speaking from his seat on the grass at the 
side of the campus : “ we can pray. And if we 
pray hard enough, God will give us what we ask. 
I know that.” 

Nobody spoke. In fact, none of them seemed 
to take any notice of Guy’s words, except Uncle 
Mike. 

“I’m not expecting a miracle, Guy,” he an- 
swered. 

“ Oh, St. Joseph can ask God to help you with- 
out a miracle ! ” said Guy. “ I always think that 
St. Joseph understands us better than most saints. 
He was poor himself, and he knows what we 
need.” 

Jack and Bob resolved that they would pray 
with all their might, but they did not speak 
about it. 

On the next afternoon the smaller boys were 
permitted to go to dine with Father Mirard. 
Before knocking at the priest’s little white door, 


A WAY OUT. 


201 


Faky and Miley and Thomas Jefferson excused 
themselves, leaving Baby alone on the doorstep. 
Faky said he thought he would run round the 
block ; Miley remarked that he guessed he would 
see how the numbers ran on the other side of the 
street; and Thomas Jefferson declared that he 
must find out whether the blue streak at the end 
of the avenue was the river or the sky. 

Baby grumbled, but waited. Faky waited 
until the others were out of sight, and entered 
the little chapel. He knelt in the aisle, out far 
from the ruby-like flame before the Tabernacle, 
and prayed with all his heart that something 
might happen to save Uncle Mike. He heard a 
thumping noise behind him, and he turned for a 
moment. There was Miley Galligan beating his 
chest as if it were a drum, and praying with great 
fervor; and farther down in the church was 
Thomas Jefferson, his face buried in his hands. 
This gave Faky firm confidence that all was not 
lost ; and a way out would be found by God. 

The three boys left the chapel together. 

“ Oh, God will do it, of course ! ” Miley said. 
“ He sees we can’t do anything.” 

By this time Baby had entered Father Mirard’s 
house. The kind priest met the others at the 
door. 

“ Welcome ! ” he exclaimed, heartily, holding 
two letters in his hand. “ My children,” he 
added, smiling, “ I have good news for you.” 


202 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


“We need it, Father,” answered Miley. 

“Are these for me?” demanded Thomas Jef- 
ferson, taking the letters. 

“ Of course,” replied Father Mirard. 

“ To keep ? ” 

“ To keep, — to do as you please with.” 

“Then,” said Thomas Jefferson, turning to the 
others, “ Uncle Mike shall have his house.” 


THE BOXES. 


203 


XX. 

THE BOXES. 

Father Mirard was amused by the excite- 
ment of the boys, not understanding the cause of 
it. Timothy Grigg had entered last; he stood 
with his mouth wide open, amazed. And well 
he might be. Miley Galligan, having taken one 
long look at the stamps on the letters, bounded 
into the middle of the hall and began to sing the 
“Alabama Coon,” accompanied by a double 
shuffle. Faky bent low and patted his knees in 
excellent time, and Thomas Jefferson yelled in 
unison ; while Baby Maguire stood still. 

“ Boys ! boys ! ” cried Father Mirard, implor- 
ingly. “ My dear boys, you afflict me.” 

But who could be* heard above this din? 
Miley’s voice grew louder, and Thomas Jefferson 
joined in the clapping. Even Timothy Grigg 
assisted in the noise, and ran to the piano and 
gave an imitation banjo accompaniment. 

Father Mirard put his hands to his ears, but 
he laughed ; for he always had a great tolerance 
for the ways of the American boy. He did not 
understand them, but he enjoyed them. He was 
particularly fond of bad boys, and they knew it. 
The good boys, he declared, had many friends, 


204 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


but the bad boy had no friends. He never 
showed any regard for Steve Osborne, because 
he disliked the pretentious and mean boy. He 
never hesitated to give the bad boy his opinion 
of him, but he always did it gently. When 
Billy Atkins borrowed Professor Grigg’s best 
horse and scoured the county for a whole day, 
and blamed John Betts for the laming of the 
animal, Father Mirard had him down to tea. 
He knew that the quickest way to the juniors’ 
confidence was through the cheerfulness caused 
by judicious feeling. 

Billy Atkins had been as sullen as a bear with 
a sore head. He would not confess : he still de- 
clared that John Betts had harnessed the horse 
and told him that Mr. O’Conor wanted him to 
drive to Auburn for a package of books. John 
Betts, he said, had gone part of the way with 
him. Professor Grigg ruled that Atkins should 
go ; John Betts, too, was under suspicion, — light- 
ened, however, by his previous good conduct. 

“ My father will skin me when I get home,” 
he said, as he sat opposite to Father Mirard; 
“ and mother — she’ll just make herself sick cry- 
ing over it. But I can’t help it, Father Mirard. 
Nobody takes interest in bad boys except you, 
and I’ve always been a bad boy, — everybody ex- 
pects me to be bad, and they haven’t been dis- 
appointed,” added Atkins, with a faint laugh. 
“ But I don’t care ! ” 


THE BOXES. 


205 


“ Oh, yes, you do ! ” said Father Mirard, giving 
him another piece of cake. “You’re only pre- 
tending you don’t. How did you come to lame 
the horse ? ” 

“ He stuck his foot into a musk-rat hole,” re- 
plied Atkins. “ I couldn’t help it. And then I 
was afraid to come home ; and I just blamed it 
on John Betts, because nobody would believe 
that he could do anything bad. Oh, he’s Pro- 
fessor Grigg’s white-headed boy, he is ! Oh, 
yes ! — butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Oh, 
yes ! — if you’re bad once in this school, people 
think you’re bad always. I suppose you’ll turn 
me out of the house too now, because you’ve 
made me tell you how bad I was.” 

“Hot at all,” Father Mirard replied, smiling. 
“ I think your courage in telling me the truth 
has partly made amends for your badness. How 
go to Professor Grigg and tell him the truth.” 

“ The professor won’t listen ; he’ll Jcnow I am 
bad, — he only guesses at it now. I took his 
horse to have a good drive, and just to spite him 
for giving me six pages in the 6 Historia Sacra.’ ” 

Billy expected Father Mirard to groan aloud 
at this revelation ; he fixed his eyes on the 
priest’s face, ready to see it change color. Fa- 
ther Mirard looked grave. 

“ My dear Billy,” he said, “ I wasn’t a very 
good boy myself; but I always told the truth, 
and I tried to be good after a time.” 


206 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ I won’t go to Professor Grigg ; I hate him,” 
protested Billy, frankly. “But what bad things 
could you do? A French boy doesn’t have much 
chance to be bad ; he’s caged up like a little girl. 
You might as well talk of a saint’s being bad.” 

“ St. Augustine was bad once. When he was 
a small boy — ” and Father Mirard told Billy 
some episodes from St. Augustine’s “ Confes- 
sions.” 

“I feel better,” said Billy ; “and I just think 
my mother’s as good to me as St. Monica was to 
St. Augustine. I’ll just go and tell old — I mean 
Prof — I mean Professor Grigg. And if he turns 
me out, I’ll come back to you.” 

Professor Grigg was induced to relent, and 
Billy Atkins began to be more manly at once. 
He always declared that Father Mirard had 
made him see what meanness was. Hence Billy 
was one of the six best juniors invited on this 
occasion, — Miley Galligan having been added 
from the seniors, because Father Mirard did not 
know of his promotion. 

Billy entered, his newly- washed face some- 
what soapy, but flushed with pleasure. 

“ Look ! ” said Thomas Jefferson, showing him 
the envelopes. 

“ Look ! ” cried Miley Galligan, ceasing to 
dance. 

“ Look ! ” called out Faky Dillon. 

Billy examined the stamps attentively. 


THE BOXES. 


207 


“Jimmy Pats!” he said, slowly; then he 
whistled. “ You’re in luck ! By golly ! Mauri- 
tius of the first issue means big money. Jimmy 
Pats ! ” 

“ O Father, I beg pardon ! ” observed Faky, 
breathlessly. “ But we wanted money for some 
poor people that will lose everything, and we 
couldn’t think of anything. There wasn’t any 
way out ” 

“Not a way ! ” interrupted Miley. 

“ It seemed as though these poor people, who 
have been kind to little Guy, you know, would 
be turned out in the street. It is all because of 
notes or mortgages, or something of that kind. 
But Guy gave us a tip about praying, and we all 
went and prayed.” 

“ This is all very strange,” said the good 
priest; “I don’t understand. I give you some 
old stamps with pleasure, — yes. You dance and 
sing, — very well. You tell me about poor old 
people and little Guy and prayer. All I under- 
stand is that you did well to pray. Oh, yes ! 
vou did well to pray. Come, the omelette will 
be cold.” 

The boys followed Father Mirard into the 
dining-room, where Madame Kosse, the old 
housekeeper, who spoke no English, met them 
with a beaming smile, and the hot omelettes and 
her famous fried potatoes. 

After tea had begun, Faky, assisted by a 


208 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


chorus, told Father Mirard that these Mauritius 
stamps were valuable. 

Father Mirard shrugged his shoulders. 

“ They are yours, my boys,” he said ; “ I care 
not how valuable they are. Do as you will with 
them.” 

“We were afraid that you might want them 
back again,” said Faky, frankly. 

“Would that be like a Frenchman?” asked 
Father Mirard, reproachfully. He made them 
tell him all about little Guy and Uncle Mike and 
Mrs. McCrossin. And Faky told the story so 
well — every word of it came from his heart — 
that Billy Atkins was observed to wipe his 
eyes with his jacket sleeve, and Father Mirard 
said heartily : 

“ For the first time in my life I wish I were 
rich, — I do indeed ! ” 

The sponge cake and custard and the tiny 
glasses of sweet cordial were brought in at this 
moment, and Billy whispered to Miley Galligan : 

“ Steve Osborne’s club has got three boxes. 
They’re locked in the trunk-room. And Steve is 
going to do you out of your share.” 

“ Is he ? ” said Miley, eating his sponge cake. 
“ He is ? Ah, ah ! Glad you told me. When 
Miley Galligan is left, dear child, the circum- 
ambient snow and frost will surprise the oldest 
inhabitant thereof, — and don’t you forget it ! ” 

“No slang,” whispered Billy. “Father Mi- 


THE BOXES. 


209 


rard is listening, and you know he doesn’t like 
slang.” 

“The club has boxes, has it? And I’m to be 
left out, am I ? All right ! ” said Miley, sar- 
castically. “ A-a-11 right ! ” 

For a time the supper drove all thoughts of 
the stamps from the minds of the boys. But 
Miley brooded over the perfidy of the club, and 
was so absent-minded that he went on eating after 
everybody else had finished. 

Thomas Jefferson longed so earnestly to dis- 
cover just how much the stamps on Father 
Mirard’s letters were worth that he could not 
sing in the choruses or amuse himself in any 
way. He stood near the window of the little 
parlor, looking into the back yard while the 
boys were singing a rollicking college chorus. 
As he stood there he fancied he saw a figure 
cross the garden from the honeysuckle arbor to 
the willow-tree opposite. The twilight had be- 
gun to fall, but he recognized Steve Osborne. He 
wondered what he was doing there, but said noth- 
ing about him. He had put the precious stamps 
into an envelope given to him by Father Mirard. 
He took the envelope out, looked at it carefully, 
and then thrust it back into his jacket pocket. 
Miley noticed this and laughed. 

“Why are you so silent?” asked Father 
Mirard, turning from the cheerful party at the 
piano. 


210 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“The stamps are on his mind,” said Miley. 
“If he had the Postage Stamp Guide, and could 
see just what they’re worth, he’d feel better.” 

“ So would I,” said Faky. 

The housekeeper came in, and lighted the 
lamp on the centre table. The boys gathered 
about Thomas Jefferson and gazed at the stamps. 
One was orange-colored ; the Greek head, with 
its fillet among the hair, plainly printed “ Post- 
age,” “ Mauritius,” “ Post office,” and “ One 
penny,” was plainly discernible. Moreover, the 
post office people had not soiled the stamp. 

“ My brother,” explained Father Mirard, “ in- 
tended to post that letter before he left Mauritius. 
He forgot, went on board the vessel with it in 
his pocket, and brought it to me himself. Poor, 
dear Fernand ! he is dead now.” 

The other stamp was blue, of the denomination 
of two pence. 

“ 1848,” began Father Mirard, looking at the 
envelope from which Thomas Jefferson had taken 
the stamp. “ Ah, yes ! Fernand wrote that letter 
to me after he had gone home.” 

Timothy Grigg had stolen out quietly, while 
the group was interested in the stamps. He now 
returned with a green-covered book. 

“ I knew Leo Martin had a i Guide,’ so I just 
slipped out to borrow it from him.” 

Faky opened the book with trembling hands, 
and looked for “ Mauritius.” 


THE BOXES. 


211 


“Here,” he said, giving the volume to Timothy 
Grigg, “you find the place: I’m too nervous. 
Suppose we should be mistaken ? ” 

“I hope not,” said Father Mirard, who was 
doubtful about the whole matter. “ I hope not, 
for the sake of your poor people.” 

The faces around the lamp were intent and 
earnest. Timothy found page 357, and read : 

“ 1847. 1 A 1 1 p orange 2000.00. ” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed all the boys. 

It was a long-drawn-out “ Oh,” meaning 
amazement, in Timothy Grigg’s mouth, and 
relief and gratitude in Faky’s and Thomas 
J efferson’s. 

“The other!” exclaimed Faky, — “find the 
other ! ” 

Timothy looked at it eagerly. 

“ 1848,” he replied, anxiously. “ Two pence. 
It’s worth only fifteen dollars, — perhaps less, for 
it is cancelled.” 

“ I congratulate your good Uncle Mike,” 
replied Father Mirard, still doubtful. “ If, how- 
ever, your dream of the stamp is not realized, 
count on me to help you in any way I can. Your 
intention is good.” 

“ But, Father, the stamp is really worth two 
thousand dollars,” answered Faky, earnestly. 
“We shall sell it for that.” 

“ Come, let us sing,” said Father Mirard, who 
looked on all this as a piece of boyish nonsense ; 


212 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


and the boys burst into “ The Spanish Cavalier,” 
while he played the accompaniment. 

“ It makes a boy better to have a good time 
like that,” Billy Atkins said on their way home. 
“ I just love Father Mirard ! ” 

Thomas Jefferson nodded his head. He kept 
his hand against his jacket pocket ; for there was 
the precious stamp. 

“ I say,” he broke out, “ isn’t that Steve 
Osborne? There he goes! Somebody jogged 
my arms.” 

Somebody had passed quickly, and leaped on a 
bicycle farther up the road. Miley saw that the 
“ somebody ” was Osborne. 


A DIALOGUE. 


213 


XXI. 

A DIALOGUE. 

The boys were sound asleep at a very early 
hour; for Father Mirard’s little entertainments 
were not kept up late. The precious envelope 
was in Jack’s possession. (Thomas Jefferson be- 
lieved it to be safer with him.) He put it under 
his pillow carefully, and he awoke several times 
in the night to see whether it was safe or not. 

Steve Osborne happened to be captain of the 
dormitory; for at Professor Grigg’s school a 
great deal of responsibility was thrown upon the 
boys. It was forbidden to bring anything from 
without into the sleeping-room ; and before Steve 
turned out the lights, he walked up to Jack and 
demanded what he had under his pillow. 

“ If it is whisky,” Steve said, insolently, “ you’ll 
be expelled.” 

Jack’s blood tingled at this insult. 

“I don’t belong to your club,” he retorted. 
“ You’ve made a mistake. I don’t belong to a 
crowd that boasts of drinking and playing 
poker.” 

“ What have you got there ? ” 

Jack hesitated. According to the dormitory 


214 


JACK CHUMLEIGrH. 


rules, the captain of the week had a right to 
make such a demand; and if Jack dill not com- 
ply, he could report him to Mr. O’Conor, which 
meant a serious charge against him to the gov- 
erning committee. 

“ It’s only an envelope, Mr. Osborne,” an- 
swered Jack, showing the precious piece of 
paper. 

“ A check from your millionaire papa, I sup- 
pose ! ” said Osborne, with a sneer. 

“I don’t propose to discuss my father with 
you. And I tell you this,” added Jack, flaring 
up. “ To-morrow you’ll be like anybody else on 
the campus. You can’t put on airs when Miley 
Galligan comes to you and wants his share of 
the boxes.” 

“ What boxes ? ” asked Osborne. 

“Oh, I know!” said Jack. “Miley told me 
as we were coming upstairs.” 

“ Miley ! Does he know ? ” said Osborne, off 
his guard. “ I don’t see what right he has with 
the seniors. I believe that Mr. O’Conor found 
him too ‘tough ’ to be let go among the juniors.” 

Osborne had made a good guess at the truth, 
and Jack was very indignant ; he was always in- 
tensely loyal to his friends. 

“You’re a mean — ” he began. 

“No talking ! ” Osborne said, assuming his 
military air. “ I’ll report you if you don’t keep 
quiet.” 


A DIALOGUE. 


215 


Jack ground his teeth and turned over on his 
pillow. He hated to obey anybody, but to have 
to obey Steve Osborne ! — it was too much. And 
yet it was a good lesson for him ; for that night 
he learned for the first time that there was a 
principle in obedience behind the person that ex- 
acted it. 

Suddenly the lights went out ; Jack said a lit- 
tle extra prayer, and went to sleep with the 
precious envelope in his hand. In the night a 
breeze blew through the yellow vine leaves that 
clustered over the window, and the envelope flut- 
tered to the floor. It was Jack’s first thought 
when he awoke. He picked it up, and laid it 
away carefully in the bottom of his jacket 
pocket, resolving to send the stamps to the great 
dealer in New York at noon. 

The morning was a busy one. There was a 
longer drill than usual ; then came the announce- 
ment of additional orders, and of the appoint- 
ment of a new set of officers. Jack was reported 
b} r the colonel because there was a spot on his 
belt, and Miley ordered to guard duty because 
he had forgotten his bayonet. The colonel was 
in a bad humor, and the morning was hot in 
more ways than one. Uncle Mike admired the 
drill very much ; and Guy, as he sat on a bench 
watching the boys, wished with all his heart that 
he could carry a musket. 

It was a bad morning for Jack: everything 


216 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


seemed to go wrong. As he was leaving the 
campus, the colonel noticed that he had worn 
his right shoe heel very unevenly, and publicly 
commented on his slovenliness and “ unsoldierly 
lack of neatness.” To make matters worse, Jack 
heard Steve Osborne, in his report of the dormi- 
tory, mention Bob Bently’s name as first on the 
list for good conduct. Jack was not sorry to 
hear Bob praised, but that Bob should be praised 
by Steve Osborne filled him with rage. He 
fancied, too, that Bob, who had imitated Os- 
borne’s “West Point waist ” and was very cor- 
rect, laughed as the colonel reprimanded him. 

“ For nothing ! ” Jack said, as he dressed in his 
ordinary clothes. “Just as if it was a great 
fault to have one’s heels uneven. I wasn’t 
brought up to be a dude.” 

As he dressed, Jack consoled himself by im- 
agining that he was in a position to give the 
colonel and Steve Osborne a piece of his mind ; 
and he gave it to them — in his mind ! How sar- 
castic he was ! How Osborne wilted under his 
shower of brilliant arrows ! He ended by send- 
ing his despised heels to the shoemaker’s at 
once. 

“Ah!” said the colonel, as he passed Jack, 
who drew his heels together with a click and 
made the usual salute, “you can take a hint.” 

“A hint, colonel!” said Jack. “I think it 
was a bludgeon.” 


A DIALOGUE. 


217 


“ Boys need a bludgeon sometimes,” returned 
the colonel, smiling amiably. 

And all of a sudden Jack found himself in a 
very good humor. He was glad that he had put 
on his new shoes, and he wondered how he 
could have endured those uneven heels. 

The classes were “ on,” as the boys said, for 
three hours. In his struggle to keep his average 
in the algebra class, Jack forgot all about every- 
thing else. At the short recess before dinner, 
he secured permission to go over to the juniors’ 
campus. 

Uncle Mike, Guy, Baby Maguire, Faky Dillon, 
and Thomas Jefferson were comfortably seated 
under a big apple-tree. As Jack approached, 
Faky said : 

“ The hero comes 
Without fife or drums ; 

Without a rocket, 

But in his pocket — 

Excuse me ! My inspiration isn’t on ice to-day. 
I’ll polish that up later.” 

“ They’ve been telling me,” said Uncle Mike, 
shaking hands with Jack, “ that they’re going to 
keep the roof over the old woman and mj^self. I 
don’t understand it, and I can hardly believe it ; 
but I’m that grateful — ” Uncle Mike broke off ; 
there was a suspicious tremble in his voice. “ I 
hope it’s true.” 

“ Of course it is true,” put in Guy, his eyes 


218 


JACK CHUMLEIGIi. 


sparkling. “ Everybody knows that the Mauritius 
stamps of the right issue are worth mints of 
money.” 

Before Jack could answer, Miley Galligan 
came up and touched his shoulder. 

He answered Jack’s look of surprise by saying : 

“ Oh, I don’t go on guard until to-morrow ! 
And of course while Uncle Mike’s here I am en- 
titled to a little conge. Look here, Jack ! I want 
to see you.” 

“ All right ! ” 

Miley linked his arm into Jack’s with an air 
of great importance, and drew him away from 
the group under the tree. 

“ Hews ! ” said Faky, in a loud whisper. “ The 
Bowery is burned up, and Miley has just heard 
the news.” 

Miley turned to throw a look of scorn at the 
scoffer. 

“ Jack,” he said, “ I’ve found the club’s boxes. 
They’re under the stairway in the trunk-room, 
hidden under a lot of straw. And I’m not going 
to be cheated. Osborne thinks that nobody can 
find them ; he’s a cute one ! He said just a mo- 
ment ago, so that I could hear : 4 My aunt has 
sent me a box, but nobody knows it. There’s 
champagne in it.’ He did it just to aggravate 
me. His box is not among those under the 
stairway. They’ll be opened to-night, or the 
things will spoil ; and I’m going to open them.” 


A DIALOGUE. 


219 


“ I don’t think that it would be right,” replied 
Jack. 

“Look here, Jack, you haven’t lived in the 
world much. I have. A bargain is a bargain. 
I made my terms. What then? Gimme my 
pound of turkey?” added Miley, striking an 
attitude. 

“Well, I don’t want their old turkey,” said 
Jack. 

“ But I do. And, then, think of the principle 
of the thing, and the pickles — oh, the pickles ! I 
wish I could find Steve’s aunt’s box. I wouldn’t 
drink wine — mom made me promise that , — but 
I’ll bet it’s a boss box. I wish I could find it.” 

“I don’t care,” said Jack. “We’ll soon have 
a box of our own.” 

“ But, you know, the principle of the thing ! ” 
urged Miley. 

“ I don’t see much principle in looking into 
another fellow’s box.” 

“Oh, you don’t! That’s because you’re a 
greeny. Now, Mumford is the captain of our 
dormitory for this week, — he was appointed to- 
day. He is near-sighted. All we’ll have to do 
will be to sneak out. I’ll get the key of the 
trunk-room.” 

“Ho,” persisted Jack, firmly. 

“Ho! Well, you are idiotic, — just a chump. 
Don’t you want to see the club checkmated ? ” 

“ Ho. Let ’em alone ! ” 


220 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Not on your birthday ! ” said Miley. “ I am 
going to run this school. My grandfather wasn’t 
a pirate, but my father was one of the men that 
ran New York, and you just remember it ; and 
if you want to run this school with me, just you 
say so.” 

“I don’t,” said Jack. “ I have enough to do 
to manage my own business.” And he turned 
to join Uncle Mike. 

“ Stop ! ” said Miley. “ Do you know what 
Steve Osborne will think if we don’t make good 
the threat I made to loot the boxes ? He and 
Bob Bently will have a good time laughing at 
you, — of course they’ll laugh.” 

Jack’s face became red. Miley saw that his 
words had told. 

“ Look here ! I went into your quarrel — I 
settled the thing for you, — and now you go and 
back out. I don’t blame Bob Bently and Steve 
Osborne for having a good time laughing at you, 
— I don’t blame them ! Did you see how every- 
body laughed when the colonel let out on you 
about your heels this morning? Steve just 
howled.” 

Poor Jack’s heart became very bitter. 

“ Say ! ” Miley continued, — “ say ! think of the 
club when it finds that you are not afraid of it, 
anyhow ! And we’ll find Osborne’s aunt’s box. 
He says that it’s full of things that will keep till 
Thanksgiving, so lie’s not giving anything away. 


A DIALOGUE. 


221 


That makes all the boys anxious to give him 
things now. He’s a dandy ! And, say, there 
must be good things in that box ; for his aunt’s a 
millionaire.” 

“ That’s easily understood,” answered Jack, 
with a touch of scorn. “ It’s natural enough for 
people related to pirates to have lots of money. 
Nobody would speak to such folks in Phila- 
delphia.” 

“ I’m not talking of his grandfather, — the aunt’s 
got the cash, and Steve’s box must be scrump- 
tious. There are lots of the fattest kind of sar- 
dines in it, I’ll bet ; and I heard Steve talking to 
Bob about the sausages his aunt always sends. I 
shouldn’t wonder if there would be imported 
ginger-ale in the box.” 

“ Steve doesn’t spend so much money himself, 
— he’s stingy.” 

“He treats Bob Bently occasionally. They 
will have great fun drinking that imported gin- 
ger-ale and laughing at you. I can hear ’em 
myself. ‘Ain’t Jack Chumleigh soft?’ I can 
hear Bob Bently saying. ‘You can be as nasty 
as you like to him, and he won’t resent it. He’s 
a rag-baby.’ ” 

“ Bob wouldn’t say that ! ” exclaimed Jack, 
growing very angry. 

“Wouldn’t he?” asked Miley, whistling long 
and knowingly. “ Oh, he wouldn’t ! No ! — oh, 
no ! He’s a daisy ! ” 


222 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


Jack gripped Miley ’s arm. 

“If I thought Bob Bently would talk that 
way, I’d ” 

“ Are you going to whisper all day ? ” de- 
manded Faky from under the apple-tree. 

“ I must go ! ” Jack said. “ I tell you, Miley, 
I’ll settle Bob’s laughing at me. I’m with you 
to-night.” 

Miley whistled triumphantly, and, with a wave 
of his hand to Uncle Mike, he started in haste 
back to the other campus. 

“The stamps! the stamps!” Thomas Jeffer- 
son said, impatiently. “ Show them to Uncle 
Mike. We’ve got to send them off to-day.” 

Jack drew out the envelope ; he put his thumb 
and forefinger carefully into it, and then opened 
it as wide as he could. There were no stamps 
there ! 

All the boyish faces turned white. 

“ Gone ! ” said Jack, faintly. 

“ This is Steve Osborne’s work,” added Faky. 
“ I know it is. Don’t cry, Guy.” 


STEVE OSBORNE. 


223 


XXII. 

STEVE OSBORNE. 

The sound of the next bell fell on very un- 
happy ears. It was Uncle Mike’s opinion that 
much had not been lost ; but, nevertheless, he 
sympathized deeply with the distress of his young 
friends. Dinner was a very sad meal. Jack 
could touch nothing, and Baby’s appetite alone 
was normal. 

After dinner our friends gathered near the 
seniors’ campus again, — the juniors in the group 
being permitted to go beyond their limits because 
of Uncle Mike’s visit. 

Miley’s forehead was crinkled. Guy sat, with 
his hand in Uncle Mike’s, disconsolate. Jack and 
Bob were apart, each wanting to speak, but 
neither caring to speak first. 

“ Steve Osborne took those stamps ! ” Thomas 
Jefferson said at last. “ I know he did.” 

“ I think so, too,” added Faky Dillon, with a 
defiant look at Bob Bently. 

“You must not say so,” Guy put in. “You 
dislike him, and we are always wrong when we 
find fault with those we dislike, — always ! ” 

“With whom are we to find fault, then?” 
Faky demanded, in amazement. 


224 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ With nobody ! ” said Guy, decidedly. 

“ I should like to know why you blame Steve 
Osborne for the loss of those stamps ? ” said Bob 
Bently. “ Just because Steve’s a gentleman, } r ou 
encourage all these little kids to have a pick at 
him.” 

“ I don’t think he’s a gentleman ; and if he 
wants a scrap, just tell him Miley Galligan is his 
man.” 

“ This is no time for scraps,” said Bob. “ And, 
if I were you, I wouldn’t tackle a man twice my 
size. Steve Osborne’s a friend of mine ; he has 
been accused of theft, and I’ve got to stand up 
for him.” 

“ That is right,” observed Uncle Mike. “ Don’t 
let anybody find fault with a friend of yours be- 
hind his back, — don’t you do it ! ” 

“He’s a very new friend,” said Jack, sarcas- 
tically, turning his back to Bob. 

“ I don’t believe he stole the stamps,” Bob went 
on. “ Old friends are sometimes less kind than 
new friends.” 

“ Hew friends bring champagne and cigars and 
poker chips to their new friends. Oh, yes, I un- 
derstand ! ” 

Guy looked pained, and Uncle Mike very much 
puzzled. 

“ But we must find the stamps,” said Miley. 
“ I’ll just go and threaten him.” 

Faky Dillon smiled. 


STEVE OSBORNE. 


225 


“ Fists don’t count in this. We’ve got to go to 
work with brain. I think Steve stole those 
stamps because — because — why, he was hanging 
around Father Mirard’s house last night, — listen- 
ing, I believe, — just listening to see what he could 
hear.” 

“ I decline to notice such assertions,” said Bob, 
straightening himself. “A man of honor dis- 
dains the ” 

“ Oh, yes, you got that out of a book ! ” replied 
Faky. “ Now, you look here. What was Steve 
doing last night? We saw him sneak ahead of 
us and get on his wheel.” 

“ I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Bob. 
“ He wasn’t trying to steal stamps. He doesn’t 
want money, — his aunt just pours it on him.” 

“ The stamps are gone, and I am sure that he 
took them,” persisted Faky. 

“ All this is wrong,” said Guy, raising his voice 
and trying to make himself heard above the clash 
of tongues. “ Nobody saw Steve Osborne take 
the stamps.” 

“Well, they’re gone, anyhow,” said Faky; 
“ and he is the only boy mean enough to take 
them.” 

“ You don’t know anything about detective 
work,” said Miley. “ The way to catch the of- 
fender is not to put his friends on guard.” 

“ Oh, /don’t read detective stories ! ” answered 
Bob, scornfully. 


226 


JACK CHUMLE1GH. 


Miley’s face flushed. This was a hard blow ; 
for only recently he had received severe admoni- 
tions from the authorities on this subject. 

“I shall track Steve Osborne, however,” he 
went on. “ Of course, Bob, you’ll tell him that 
I am after him.” 

44 Oh, no ! ” said Bob, scornfully. 44 Oh, no ! I 
wouldn’t insult him that way.” 

44 Look at the evidence,” said Faky. 44 The 
stamps are in an envelope in Father Mirard’s 
room. W e talk about them, — good ! The win- 
dows are open, — good ! Steve Osborne prowls 
about, — bad ! He hears what we say, — bad ! And 
the stamps disappear, — worst of all ! ” 

44 Osborne came last night to find out what I 
had under my pillow,” said Jack. 

44 More evidence!” answered Faky. 

44 But if he took the stamps from Father Mi- 
rard’s, he couldn’t have got them again from un- 
der Jack’s pillow, could he ? ” asked Guy. 44 Were 
the stamps in the envelope when you went to 
bed, Jack ? Did you see them ? ” 

44 1 am sure they were there, — they must have 
been ! ” 

44 Do you remember seeing them ? ” 

44 1 am not sure whether I looked at them or 
not, — I think I did. I know so well what the 
Mauritius stamp is like that I can’t say whether 
I actually saw the stamps or not. I was sleepy, 
too.” 


STEVE OSBORNE. 


227 


“You’re no good as a witness,” said Miley. 
“ If you’re not sure that the stamps were in the 
envelope when you went to bed, you’re not sure 
that they were in the envelope when- you re- 
ceived it.” 

“ Ho ; Faky or Thomas Jefferson gave it to me 
in a great hurry, — I don’t remember ” 

“ Dismiss the witness ! ” interrupted Miley. 
“ My opinion is that Osborne sneaked in and took 
the stamps at Father Mirard's.” 

Miley glanced up defiantly, and did not lower 
his voice, though Steve passed close to them, 
making the military salute. 

“ He looks guilty,” remarked Thomas Jeffer- 
son. 

It was certain that his quick, brisk air was 
gone ; his eyes wandered, and he almost slouched 
past the group. 

“ Ah-a ! ” exclaimed Miley, significantly. 
“ Something is wrong. That hairpin knows 
about the stamps.” 

“ He must have taken them,” said Jack. 
“ Look at him ! He is slinking along as if he 
knew that we knew it.” 

“ You are saying that just because you want 
to believe it, Jack, — that’s all ! ” said Bob, angrily. 
“When you take a dislike to anybody, you’re 
willing to believe anything bad of him.” 

Jack was silent ; he knew that he wanted to 
think that Steve was guilty. 


228 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Let us go and tackle him ; you fellows can 
knock him down, and we’ll search his pockets,” 
proposed Miley, rolling up his sleeves. 

“ You’re silly,” said Thomas Jefferson. “We’d 
be jugged at once ; and we don’t know that he 
really took the stamps.” 

“I’ll tell everybody that he did,” said Faky. 
“ That will make him ashamed of himself.” „ 

“ And how will you feel when you go to con- 
fession ? ” asked Guy, gravely. “ It is a sin to 
talk about one’s neighbor.” 

“ Steve Osborne isn’t anything to me,” an- 
swered Faky. “He i$ no neighbor of mine; I 
never lived near him. What are you talking 
about, Guy ? ” 

“ I mean what I say,” continued Guy. “You 
cannot, as a Catholic, say things against Steve 
Osborne. When you have proof that he stole 
the stamps, it will be different. As it is, you 
cannot ruin his reputation.” 

“ Keputation ! ” said Faky, somewhat fright- 
ened. “ Nice reputation ! ” 

“ Guy is right,” Uncle Mike interposed. “ You 
can’t be taking away a boy’s good name without 
sin.” 

“Oh,” cried Faky, “if you can’t say things 
against Steve Osborne, you might as well be a 
mummy ! ” 

“ It is better to be a mummy than to be in a 
state of mortal sin,” said Guy. 


STEVE OSBOKNE. 


229 


There was an uncomfortable silence. Jack 
felt himself rebuked. He hated Steve Osborne, 
and he knew well that this was wrong. Steve 
Osborne came before him at all times — at his 
lessons, in the classroom ; he dreamed of Steve 
Osborne’s humiliation in some way ; and during 
recitations he awoke from reveries in which he 
had enjoyed the pleasure of unveiling Steve Os- 
borne’s wickedness to the school. Steve did not 
assume a pleasant manner toward Jack, it is true ; 
but the real reason why Jack hated him was that 
Bob liked him. 

Guy’s words were a rebuke. Still, they told 
Jack only what he knew before. He tried 
hard to drive away this intense dislike to Os- 
borne ; but it came back, and at times he cher- 
ished it. Only the Sunday before he had for- 
gotten it at Mass for a while, when he had seen 
Steve marshalling a squad of juniors up the 
aisle, and he had longed with all his might to 
demolish that trim figure and to disgrace him 
before the boys. Steve was so insolent, so 
arrogant, so patronizing. Moreover, he had told 
Timothy Grigg that Jack made fun of the pro- 
fessor; and Timothy had told his mother, and 
his mother treated Jack very coolly. But Bob 
Bently liked Steve, — that was the worst of it. 

As they sat there waiting for the afternoon 
bell to ring, nobody spoke. Jack was struggling 
with his heart; Bob was saying to himself that 


230 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


nobody could make him believe that Steve Os- 
borne was a thief ; Miley was thinking of the 
club boxes; Thomas Jefferson had made up his 
mind to search Steve Osborne’s clothes ; and 
Faky was inventing a little song modeled on 
“ Taffy was a Welshman.” As Guy had said it 
was a sin to sing it aloud, he merely hummed it 
to himself. Uncle Mike saw that Guy’s face was 
less thin, and he forgot all about his own 
troubles. 


miley’s revenge. 


231 


XXIII. 

miley’s revenge. 

The routine of school life went on as usual. 
It makes little difference to a boy whether he 
loses stamps or not, so far as Latin declensions 
are concerned. But for a day or two Faky was 
so preoccupied that he did not add even a line to 
his Latin ode ; and Thanksgiving, the time for 
the receiving of boxes, was looming in the near 
distance. 

As to Guy, the disappointment about the 
stamps made him ill ; he was taken to the in- 
firmary, where Mrs. Grigg looked after him care- 
fully. He was not seriously ill ; but, of course, 
Uncle Mike was obliged to prolong his visit. 

Professor Grigg exacted hard work of his 
pupils, especially in Latin, by which everything 
in the school was graded. And every boy had 
the Christmas examinations before his eyes. 

Jack and Miley had many consultations. Steve 
Osborne and Bob kept close together ; Bob 
avoiding his former friends, and visiting Guy in 
the infirmary only when they were not there. 

There was little shirking of tasks. Breaches of 
discipline were punished at once. Beal idleness 


232 


JACK CHUM LEIGH. 


meant expulsion, and only very foolish or weak- 
minded boys cared to risk that. The school ran 
like a machine, except when Mrs. Grigg or 
Father Mirard could add a touch of homeliness 
to it ; and the boys, occupied as they were, had 
time to long for freedom with a desire that grew 
almost frantic when Christmas came. As a rule, 
they found no pleasure in study. Professor 
Grigg said that study should be hard : nothing- 
should be done to make it pleasant. There were 
few boys who liked the work : even the oldest 
boys studied without interest — simply to keep 
their places. They enjoyed the conges all the 
more because of the rigor of the discipline. 

Bob did not speak to Steve Osborne of the loss 
of the stamps; he was very angry that Jack had 
dared to suggest that Steve had stolen them, and 
he passed him at recess with a cool nod. 

“ He is too stuck up to speak to the likes of 
us,” Miley said ; “ but he takes up with a thief.” 

“A thief!” repeated Jack, startled by that 
awful word. “We don’t know that Osborne 
took the stamps.” 

“ Bosh ! ” said Miley. “ Of course he took 
them. Who else ? ” 

Jack made no reply; he wanted to believe 
Steve guilty, though his sense of justice revolted 
against accusing him without proof. 

Jack and Miley were on their way to visit 
Guy. He was lying on a lounge near the win- 


miley’s revenge. 


233 


dow of the room devoted to boys who were im- 
proving. 

“ Bob never comes with you,” Guy said, rais- 
ing his eyes from his book. “ I am afraid that 
you and he are not good friends, Jack.” 

“We are not, Guy. Bob likes Steve Osborne 
better.” 

“ I thought you said that only girls were jeal- 
ous,” Guy answered. 

“I’m not jealous,” Jack said, hastily. “If 
Bob doesn’t care for me, I’m sure I don’t care 
for him. But I hate to see him a slave to Steve 
Osborne.” 

“ I would never quarrel with anybody I liked,” 
Guy went on. 

“But suppose you couldn’t help it, — suppose 
he did things to you ? ” 

“ Oh, I wouldn’t notice them ! ” 

“ Suppose he said things behind your back ? ” 

“ Suppose you said things behind his back ? ” 

“I never said — much,” retorted Jack, growing 
very hot and uncomfortable. 

“ Somebody must have told you what he said. 
I would not believe anything a third person told 
me of a friend,” said Guy. 

“Oh, you’re an angel! ’’put in Miley. “You 
can see by Bob’s actions that he despises Jack.” 

“ Miley, you should not make mischief,” re- 
plied Guy. “When two friends quarrel, they 
are generally both to blame. The truth is, Jack 


234 


JACK CHTJMLEIGH. 


is jealous of Steve Osborne, and Bob doesn’t be- 
lieve that Steve is a bad fellow. And I myself 
don’t believe that Steve is a bad fellow, — that is, 
altogether bad.” 

“He’s as bad as bad can be,” said Miley. 
“ He’s a wicked chump ; he blows and boasts, 
and looks down on people that are better than 
he is.” 

“ You mean yourself,” answered Guy, with a 
laugh. 

Miley blushed. 

“ Maybe I do. He has no right to look down 
on me. Maybe I do look tough. I don’t care if 
I do. I’ve got a mother that knows more in her 
little finger than anybody in Boston. She’d give 
him a piece of her mind, and his stuck-up aunt 
too, if she were here. I can afford to dress as 
well as anybody ! ” exclaimed Miley. “ And if I 
wanted to put on style, I’d know how to do it. 
I’m from Hew York, I am. If I were Jack, I’d 
make Bob Bently feel that he couldn’t talk about 
me behind my back, — that’s all ! ” 

Guy shook his head gravely. 

“ It is all bad,” he said, — “ very bad, and I am 
sorry.” 

“ They’re a mean lot, too. When we went for 
their boxes the other night, they’d emptied them. 
There wasn’t a scrap of turkev or anything else 
left.” 

Guy smiled. 


miley’s revenge. 


235 


“ All right ! ” said Miley. “ All right ! I’ll be 
even. I heard the express man tell Steve Os- 
borne that there was a box from Boston at the 
station ; and Steve told him to bring it up quietly, 
and let nobody see it. The selfish brute ! lie 
wants to eat everything in it, and not give even 
the club a bite. But I’ll be even with him.” 

Guy sighed. Jack was unhappy. He liked 
Bob Bently, — he could not help liking such an 
old friend. No matter what Bob had said of 
him, he could not help liking him. This gave 
added bitterness to his dislike for Osborne. He 
knew in his heart that if Bob came to him at any 
moment with a kind word, he would forgive him ; 
but nothing could induce Jack to go with the 
kind word to Bob first. 

Miley failed in his “ Historia Sacra,” and went 
all to pieces in the Class of Percentage ; his mind 
was exclusively filled with the fact that Steve 
Osborne’s box was down at the station. 

“ This is your first bad failure,” the teacher of 
arithmetic told him. “ I shall not reduce you in 
the class ; but if you come near it again, you will 
take the full consequences.” 

Miley heard this threat as in a dream. He 
could think only of that box, and of the delight- 
ful revenge he would have. He spoke no more 
on the subject to Jack, and he felt that it would 
not be decent to drag the smaller boys into a 
scrape. Fortunately for him, he took all the 


236 


JACK CIIUMLEIGH. 


questions in the later Latin “ quiz ” with great 
skill; he was complimented, and the marks 
against him balanced. The recess before supper 
came, and then Miley felt himself at liberty to 
think. It had rained all day, and nearly all the 
seniors were in the barrack. Miley took u Fabi- 
ola,” which had been given to him by his aunt, 
Mrs. Fitzgerald, and curled himself in one of the 
windows, which had a deep ledge. “Fabiola” 
did not keep his attention. How could he secure 
Steve Osborne’s luxurious box ? How ? This 
question vexed his mind. How could he get even 
with the club for having emptied those boxes ? 
The green baize curtain which hung across the 
window was drawn, so that only one of Miley’s 
thick-soled shoes was perceptible from the inside 
of the room. Steve Osborne did not notice this. 
Miley heard him call to Timothy Grmg: : 

“ Here, Tim ! ” 

“ Well ? ” Tim said. 

“ You’re going to town in the buggy at half- 
past six to get some books for your father, ain’t 
you ? ” 

“ Yes ; and it’s raining, and I’ve got my Men- 
suration to do. I wish papa wasn’t in such a 
hurry for the books.” 

“ Let me go.” 

“Will you? ’’asked Timothy, in a delighted 
tone. “ I’ll harness the horse, and you can come 
out of the refectory just after supper. I’ve the 


miley’s kevenge. 


237 


toothache, too. The buggy will be at the east 
side, near the walk, under the big apple-tree, — 
mind ! But what do you want to go for ? 
You’ll have to tell the tutor, or he’ll report you.” 

“ I’d like to get a letter, — a private letter ” 

“ Oh, that’s all right ! You be there.” 

“ Sure.” 

And Miley heard Steve Osborne move away. 

“ I wish he had volunteered to harness the 
horse too,” said Timothy. “ I’d go to the in- 
firmary at once, if I hadn’t that before me. The 
damp stable will not help my tooth.” 

Miley overheard this muttering. 

“ Helloo ! ” he said. “ Helloo ! What’s the 
matter ? Your jaw is swelled.” 

“ It is better than having a swelled head, any- 
how,” Tim retorted ; he was accustomed to look 
with suspicion on Miley Galligan. 

“ Oh ! ” Miley said, sweetly. “ I just wanted 
to know whether I could be of any use to you. 
I heard you say something about harnessing a 
horse, and when a fellow has the toothache ” 

“Yes,” replied Tim, brightening, “it is hard. 
Steve Osborne will go to town for papa’s books, 
but I don’t know whether he can harness a horse 
or not.” 

“ / can. I’ll harness the horse for you.” 

“ You will ! You’re a brick, Miley. I made 
up my mind to scrap with that young friend of 
yours, Faky Dillon ; but I will not if you’ll har- 


238 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


ness the horse, like a good fellow. Leave him 
on the east side of the refectory, under the apple- 
tree.” 

“ And you’ll explain to Mr. O’Conor ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

“ Thanks ! ” 

Timothy went off to get permission to go to 
the infirmary, to have his tooth treated. 

Miley chuckled. He could hardly wait until 
the bell rang for supper. Before it was over he 
went to Mr. O’Conor, and told him that he had 
been asked to harness Professor Grigg’s horse. 
The rule of the school was that every boy’s word 
was to be taken at once. If he were caught in a 
lie, it meant immediate expulsion. Mr. O’Conor 
nodded ; and, in consequence, ten minutes later 
Miley was driving rapidly toward the town. He 
felt entirely safe. Timothy Grigg would say 
that he had asked him to harness the horse ; and 
if he brought back the books, no questions would 
be asked; for Timothy would not find fault 
when the errand was done. 

“ Get up, Dick ! ” he chirruped, chuckling as 
he thought of Steve Osborne’s disappointment. 
Through the drenched fields he drove, whistling 
as he went ; and bursting into irrepressible 
laughter as he imagined the faces of the club 
when they should discover that the contents of 
Steve Osborne’s box had disappeared. He im- 
agined Osborne’s boasts; he heard him asking 


miley’s revenge. 


239 


his friends to wash down the cold turkey with 
the imported ginger-ale of which he boasted so 
often. And then — when Steve had excited their 
curiosity — the box would be opened ! Miley 
burst into such laughter here that the old horse 
stopped, amazed. He shook the reins again, and 
they moved on. 

Miley was jubilant. 

The station-master was about to lock the door 
as Miley arrived. The train had just passed 
through ; and he, fearing that the place would 
be tenanted by tramps, invariably took the pre- 
caution of making things tight when he went to 
supper. 

“ How do you do ? ” he said. 44 One of Pro- 
fessor Grigg’s boys ? There’s a box here and a 
package of books. But, I say, I wish you’d keep 
house for me for an hour. I don’t mind leaving 
the place alone for a while when things are all 
right ; but the catch is broken on one of the 
windows, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave the 
keys with you. After supper, I’ll get my tools 
to fix that catch. Telephone if you want me, in 
the meantime.” 

Miley had nodded several times during the 
speech. The man threw him the keys and was 
off ; he made all the more haste as the scent of 
fried potatoes, from the negro cabin across the 
road, reached him. 

Miley tied his horse, looked into the box of 


240 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


the buggy, and saw that it was a large one. 
Then he went back into the station-house. 
There stood the wooden ark of his hopes, and 
upon it was written, in a delicate hand : 
“ Stephen Osborne, Colonnade House.” 

Miley chuckled. He went out again and re- 
turned with several big cobblestones. He went 
and returned again, until there was a large pile 
of stones on the floor ; then he sat on the box 
and laughed. 


A LESSON. 


241 


XXIV. 

A LESSON. 

Miley chuckled as he looked at the box. His 
revenge would be complete in a few moments. 
All the luscious contents would repose in the 
buggy with Professor Grigg’s package of books ; 
and when Steve Osborne would open his box in 
the presence of the club, he would find only 
stones. Miley chuckled. He felt that nothing 
he could do would be too bad for Steve Osborne. 
Nothing ! 

Miley was not in the habit of examining his con- 
science after the manner of the scrupulous Jack. 
Jack’s hatred for Steve Osborne was a tempta- 
tion, which arose out of his heart every now and 
then. He struggled against it, he prayed against 
it ; and he could not tell what was just indigna- 
tion against Steve’s boastfulness and insolence, 
and what was dislike and jealousy of Steve per- 
sonally. Jack suffered as much from the pangs 
of his conscience as from the pain which Bob’s 
preference for Steve had given him. 

Miley had hitherto always hit back when any- 
body struck him. He thought it was a duty to 
love his friends and to maltreat his enemies. He 


242 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


held that everything was fair in war — and he 
made war on everybody who was, as he termed it, 
“ nasty ” to him. If you were “ nasty ” to Miley 
you were bad, and no affliction was too great for 
you. Miley always forgave every enemy that 
he could not catch. He was a typical school- 
boy, but by no means a typical Christian school- 
boy. He believed in a fair fight and in fair play ; 
but if your enemy did not believe in fair play, 
your duty was to attempt any trick in your 
power on him. 

Miley was manly enough, but his motto was 
“give and take.” You gave your enemy back, 
and with a vengeance, all the strokes he gave 
you. At the same time Miley had a stringent 
code of honor, the rules of which, however, were 
few. 

He had intended to bring a chisel with him. 
In fact, he had picked up one that a carpenter 
had left in the refectory corridor, but mislaid it 
in some way. As he looked round for something 
with which to open the box, he laughed over 
Steve Osborne’s speeches of the day before. 
Miley had been in the act of taking off his foot- 
ball suit when Steve had come into the barrack 
with some members of the club. They had 
seated themselves on the stools and talked, and 
Miley had listened and ground his teeth. 

“ School is a bore,” Steve had said. “ I was 
used to a great deal of freedom at home. I had 


A LESSON. 


243 


a suite of rooms in my aunt’s house, — the old 
lady just adores me, you know. Why, money is 
no object to her, — no object at all. She would 
shower cash on me here, if there was any way of 
spending it, you know.” 

At this point Miley had been tempted to ask 
why Steve has not paid back the dollar he had 
borrowed from John Betts, and which John 
made the subject of constant grumbling to his 
intimate friends. But he restrained himself. 

“My aunt,” continued Steve, “doesn’t often 
send me a box, but when she does it is a corker. 
She may not send me one this year at all, but 
when I get home she will make up for it. If 
she sends a box there will be quail in it, and I 
shouldn’t wonder if the turkey were stuffed with 
Italian chestnuts. She never spares any expense. 
Last year — you remember last year ” 

“ Yes,” said one of Steve’s admirers. “ Your 
aunt’s box came, but it was so warm that week 
that everything was spoiled, except a bottle of 
olives. I remember you told us how sorry you 
were when you saw that canvas-back duck en- 
tirely spoiled. You had promised us a great 
feed, you know.” 

“ It was an awful disappointment,” said Steve. 
“ I shall never forget how I felt when I saw that 
brace of duck and a big salmon and a monstrous 
turkey lying there, packed in frilled paper, en- 
tirely spoiled and unfit to eat. There was noth- 


244 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


ing left but some boxes of sardines and the 
olives.” 

44 But they were good olives,” said his admirer, 
looking about for a challenge. 

“They were Boston olives,” answered Steve, 
modestly. 

“ How about the champagne in the last box ? ” 
asked the admirer. “You must have felt bad 
when you found the bottles broken ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Steve, sadly ; “ I never felt so bad 
in my life. And I was afraid that some of it 
had run out of the box, and that old Grigg might 
have smelled it. You see, the weather was so 
warm that the champagne, jostled in the car, 
had fermented and burst the bottles. It was an 
awful disappointment. There were three bottles, 
and they cost five dollars and thirty-three cents 
a piece. I saw the bill.” 

There followed a silence of admiration. What 
an aunt to have ! What riches ! What glory 
was Steve’s ! 

“ This time I hope things may not be spoiled,” 
said the admirer. “We could have a boss meet- 
ing of the club if your aunt’s box came all right, 
couldn’t we ? ” 

“ It is very warm,” said Steve ; “ and the old 
lady will send the most expensive things in hot 
weather. Bless you ! what does she care ! 4 Steve,’ 
she always writes, 4 if your box is ever spoiled, 
I’ll send you another.’ But I’d rather have the 


A LESSON. 


245 


money. If it wasn’t for you fellows, I’d never 
care to have a box at all.” 

Iiis companions felt that this was a beautiful 
sentiment, and applauded it. 

This dialogue ran through Miley’s mind as he 
looked for a sharp instrument ; and he laughed 
and he laughed again. And when he had found 
a strong, pointed piece of slate, which had fallen 
on the railroad track from the coal cars, he 
laughed again. He locked himself in the station 
and began to pry open the box. The light from 
the kerosene lamp fastened to the wall above 
his head showed the broad and expectant grin 
on his face. Ah, the canvas-back duck ! He had 
never tasted canvas-back duck ; and he thought 
of the turkey stuffed with Italian chestnuts. How 
Faky Dillon would enjoy turkey stuffed with 
Italian chestnuts ! Miley did not think he would 
care for it himself — he preferred onions and sage, 
— but probably Faky might like it. And the 
champagne ! He had heard of champagne. He 
remembered that when his father had spoken of 
better days he had often alluded to champagne. 
As Miley plied the hard, thin, pointed piece of 
slate with a skilful fist, he had to stop to laugh 
again. 

The club and its box of stones ! Already he 
heard Steve talking, while the club, in its secret 
haunt, awaited the opening of the box. Already 
he heard Steve’s coterie saying all sorts of flat- 


246 


JACK CHUMLEIGII. 


tering things, while their mouths watered at the 
thought of the canvas-back duck. In his mind, 
he saw Bob Bently, with his imagination full of 
mince-pie, watching while Steve drew the nails 
out of the box. He laughed so much at this pic- 
ture that he had to throw himself back against 
the wall to roar — actually to roar. 

A tramp, who was outside, tried the knob of 
the door; and, being a good-natured tramp, he 
was forced to join in Miley’s infectious laughter. 

This echo brought Miley to a sense of the im- 
portant duty that lay before him. He went to 
work at the box. The lid was lifted olf at last ; 
for Miley, though greatly tempted, devoted no 
more valuable time to laughter ; for the station- 
master might return at any moment. 

Miley hastily removed the upper layer of thick 
brown paper. Would the turkey or the duck or 
the champagne appear first ? He held his breath. 
Could his vision withstand the glories he was 
about to see ? 

Underneath the brown paper there was a pack- 
age of stockings, and below this another of win- 
ter underclothing; a small pocketbook, a little 
picture of Shakspere drawn with a pen on yellow 
wood, varnished ; a box of biscuits and several 
boxes of sardines. Yes, there was a large bottle 
of catchup, too, — but no other bottle. 

Miley looked at the lid of the box. It was 
directed to Stephen Osborne. It was certainly 


A LESSON. 


247 


the box. He tossed everything out on the floor. 
He opened the pocketbook: it contained five 
dollars in silver. 

The kerosene lamp shone no longer on a broad 
grin : Miley’s face was grave. He was oppressed 
by the thought that he might have opened the 
wrong box. Where was the canvas-back duck ? 
Where was the champagne ? He thrust his hand 
to the bottom of the box, in the hope of finding 
even a solitary quail. He was not sure that he 
would know a quail if he saw it ; he knew, how- 
ever, that the pocketbook was not a quail, — he 
was sure of that. 

He tossed the things back into the box. What 
did Steve Osborne’s aunt mean ? Miley grew in- 
dignant at her. What kind of an old lady could 
she be, to treat her nephew in this manner ? An 
old lady living in Boston, too, the home of cham- 
pagne and quail and all the good things of life ! 
An old lady with millions, too ! What business 
had she to send a pocketbook with five silver 
dollars in it ? Miley was disgusted. 

“ Old curmudgeon ! ” he said. “ I’m glad she’s 
not my aunt. Aunt Esther wouldn’t treat me 
that way ; and though mother says Aunt Mary is 
a crank, I’m sure she wouldn’t be so mean.” 

Miley concluded that there was nothing to do 
but nail up the box, and this filled him with re- 
gret. As he picked up the lid, he noticed on the 
floor an envelope, unsealed. It was directed to 


248 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Mr. S. Osborne.” Perhaps this letter held the 
explanation of the means of Steve’s aunt. He 
picked the envelope up. Should he read the 
letter within it or not ? He held it in his hand 
and reflected seriously. It was Steve Osborne’s 
letter. He disliked Osborne. Maybe there was 
a secret in this letter which would make Steve 
Osborne afraid of him. It was wrong to read 
another person’s letter ; it was dishonorable. His 
mother had often told him that it was a sin. He 
was alone: who would ever know it? Who? 
God and his own conscience. 

There was the letter, in its white envelope, un- 
sealed. In that letter, perhaps, lay the reason 
why Steve Osborne had been deprived of his 
customary ration of quail, canvas-back duck, and 
champagne. It would be “ great ” to know it ; 
it would be “ immense.” To know it and to feel 
that he could tell whenever he felt like it ; to be 
able to fill Steve with terror whenever he saw 
him putting on airs ; to be able to confide the 
secret to the club and to draw its members away 
from Steve ! He twirled the letter in his hands. 

The temptation was great. Miley knew that 
he ought to say an “Our Father.” He knew 
that if he said the “ Our Father,” he would 
not open the letter. But he wanted to open it, 
and he did not say the “ Our Father.” 

He looked about him, feeling like a sneak. No 
one could see him, — he knew that ; yet the ker- 


A LESSON. 


249 


osene lamp in front of its rusty reflector seemed 
to be an eye. He knew he was a sneak to think 
for a moment of opening that letter. But he 
wanted to know what was in it, and there it lay 
in the palm of his hand. Nobody would ever 
think that a manly boy like Miley Galligan could 
open another person’s letter, and he would like 
to hear anybody say he would do such a thing ! 

He slipped the letter from the envelope and 
opened it, crushing back all qualms. The letter 
was written in an old-fashioned hand, and ran 
thus : 

Dear Steve : — I send you what I can. It is 
not much. Your bill has been paid, and this is 
all I shall have to spare for two months. Take 
good care of it. Keep up appearances as well as 
you can. I am sure, from what I hear, that no- 
body at the school suspects that you are the son of 
Philip Phillips, the forger, now serving his term. 
Above all, keep up appearances ; but do not tell 
lies. I want you to have such an education as will 
take you out of the reach of everybody your father 
ever knew ; and you will always bear my name, 
Osborne. Your father loves you and repents; he 
grieves day and night for the shame he brought 
on his only son. He sends you this little picture, 
done in his leisure hours. He begs you to keep 
it, and forgive him if you can ; though he asks 
you to forget that he is your father. I put this 


250 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


in the box, because Professor Grigg sometimes 
opens boys’ letters. It is his right. 

Your loving, Aunt Fanny. 

Miley put the letter back, sealing it first. He 
went to work and nailed the lid on the box. He 
was not laughing now. When he had driven in 
the last nail with the aid of a big stone, he sat 
on the box and said to himself : 

“ You’re a sneak, Miley Galligan, — you’re a 
sneak ! God’s ashamed of you.” 

He knew that he was a sneak, and he despised 
himself. A great pity for Steve Osborne and a 
thorough contempt for himself took possession of 
him. He sat on the box, wondering if he could 
ever look an honest boy in the face again. He 
began to cry, and he cried until he heard the 
station-man outside. It seemed to him as if he 
had lost something he could never regain, and 
this was his own good opinion of himself. 

“ You’ve been a good boy,” said the station- 
man, as he opened the door. 

“ I’m as mean as dirt,” answered Miley, avert- 
ing his face. 

The box and the books were stowed in the 
buggy. Miley drove rapidly toward the school. 
As he passed Father Mirard’s church he did not 
dare to lift his hat as usual. It would be a 
mockery, — God must despise him; so he drove 
on, heartily despising himself. 


THE BOX. 


251 


XXY. 

THE BOX. 

Miley drove back in an abject state of mind. 
He had done a mean thing, and he had done it 
willingly. There was no excuse for it. He had 
walked deliberately into the mud, and now he 
felt as if he needed a good bath. He had 
deliberately opened a letter not intended for 
him ; he had read it deliberately. He was in 
possession of Steve Osborne’s secret. He could 
humiliate him, — he could burst the bubble of his 
arrogance with a word. And Miley, even in the 
midst of his compunction, wanted to do this. 
But he could not do it without adding a more 
dishonorable act to the one he had just com- 
mitted. He despised himself ; he felt that he 
could never look himself in the face again. And 
yet he wanted, with all his heart, to drag Steve 
Osborne in the dust. Still, when he thought of 
the poor aunt working away to keep the son of 
the forger respectable and above the reach of 
shame, he relented, and the tears came to his 
eyes. 

He felt that he ought to stop at Father 
Mirard’s and get himself clear again. He was 


252 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


not sure whether he had committed a mortal sin 
or not ; but he was sure that he felt very nasty, 
and that he would like to go to confession. It 
was too late for that, however. 

As he approached the road that led to the 
entrance avenue of the school, a figure ap- 
peared from behind a clump of trees, dragging a 
bicycle. 

“ Hello ! ” Steve Osborne’s voice said. “ Who 
are you ? ” 

“ Miles Galligan,” answered Miley, briefly and 
in a subdued voice, — all his usual fire had gone 
out with him. 

“Well, I just want to say this, Mr. Miles 
Galligan,” Osborne went on, in his most insolent 
tone. “ The next time you interfere in my busi- 
ness I’ll appeal to higher authority. You had 
no business to run off with the buggy.” 

“ Maybe not, maybe not,” said Miley ; “ but I 
have done you a favor, nevertheless. I’ve 
brought the box you’ve been looking for on the 
sly of late. Here it is. Take it ! ” And Miley 
pitched the box into the road. “ Take it up as 
best you can. I hope that I haven’t broken any 
bottles. And if you want to return the compli- 
ment, you can give back those stamps you stole 
the other night. Get up ! ” Miley said im- 
patiently to the horse. “ Get up ! ” 

Steve picked up the box with a sigh of relief. 
At least it was safe in his hands from prying 


THE BOX. 


253 


eyes. He had expected to find it on the night of 
Father Mirard’s little party, as he presumed that 
his aunt had sent it. And ever since he had, at 
every opportunity, gone beyond bounds on his 
bicycle, at great risk. The box had come at 
last ! He balanced it in front of him and started 
toward the school. He would have no difficulty 
in getting it into the barrack unseen, — he could 
make a dozen excuses for its non arrival after- 
ward. He determined, however, to get even 
with Miley for daring to cast it so insolently 
into the road. He put forth all his strength 
and skill, and passed Miley just as he entered the 
avenue. 

Miley whipped the horse, forgetting that 
Steve’s wheel must give him an advantage ; he 
was filled with a desire to beat Steve. His 
unreasonable haste, however, defeated itself : a 
buckle in the harness broke, and he was forced 
to get down to bore another hole in a strap. He 
looked for his penknife — always Miley ’s faithful 
friend, — and could not find it. It was gone. He 
remembered that he had used it as a help to the 
sharp stone in opening Steve’s box. It had dis- 
appeared ; and, as he had no penknife, he had to 
drive slowly up the avenue, with the broken 
harness. He was irritated to see Steve Osborne 
turn the corner of the main building, with the 
box in his arms. Steve had put his bicycle 
away, but found that the door of the barrack 


254 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


was closed. Steve was happy to have that box 
in his own hands, and happier that he had man- 
aged to get it into the school without being 
observed by the club. As he passed Miley, he 
saw the broken harness. 

“Ho, Galligan!” he said. “You’ll get into 
trouble. The Prof, will swear that you’ve been 
driving that horse to death.” 

“ Oh, yes, I know I shall ! ” answered Miley ; 
“but if I had a penknife I could fix it all 
right. I guess you’re mighty glad to see me in 
a scrape.” 

Whether it was that Steve’s box and its escape 
had put him into a good humor, or that he pre- 
ferred to bully his enemies publicly, not privately, 
it is hard to say. He laid down his box, whipped 
out his penknife, and put a hole through the 
strap. 

“How,” he said, buckling it, “you’re all 
right ! ” 

Miley was so amazed that he did not thank 
him in words. He did so in acts, however ; for 
from the corner of the main building appeared 
John Betts, Timothy Grigg, and the Cuban, 
Juan Estaferro, who detested Osborne because 
he occasionally saluted him as “ Greaser.” They 
were about to pounce on Steve’s box, when 
Miley jumped down and flung it into the buggy. 

“ Grip it ! ” cried Juan. “ That’s Steve’s box. 
It has come at last.” 


THE BOX. 


255 


Steve’s heart sank. He did not know what 
was in the box, but he did know that the opening 
of it would ruin all his pretensions. 

Miley was quick. With the box in the buggy, 
he drove straight to the stable, and locked the 
door. 

“ Oh, it was only Professor Grigg’s package of 
books ! ” remarked Juan, in a disappointed voice. 
“If it had been your box, Steve, Miley would 
have been the first to open it. Hey ? ” 

Steve said nothing. In a few moments the 
bell for the last hour of study would ring, and he 
must secure the box. 

“Well, Osborne,” said Juan, “if that had been 
your box, your friends of the club would not have 
got much of it, — I can tell you that ! — sure ! 
Carramba ! ” 

“ Don’t swear,” said J ohn Betts. “ I’d like to 
see some of the champagne Steve talks about. If 
the bottles in the new box are spoiled, we’ll be- 
gin to think that his rich aunt is a very stingy 
woman.” 

Steve Osborne said nothing. He made a vow 
in his heart that if that box could be saved from 
Miley’s hands he would never tell a lie again. 
He was sick of lying, and he knew — as all liars 
do — that he could not be believed for any length 
of time. He had' begun by boasting, to cover the 
real state of affairs ; and he had kept it up, in- 
creasing his boasts until he was forced to invent 


256 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


new tales of his aunt’s splendor, day by day, to 
prevent the foolishness of his former boasts from 
being discovered. Steve did not know yet that 
it is very hard to deceive boys : they have a way 
of discovering the truth by intuition. The older 
a boy grows, the more easily he is deceived ; but 
the little ones have a way of finding out things. 
And John Betts and Timothy Grigg had long 
ago made up their minds that Steve was not 
“ square.” 

The bell rang, and Osborne was left alone, 
heavy-hearted and fearful. He ran to the stable 
as fast as he could. Miley was waiting for him. 

“ Here’s your box,” Miley said. 

“ Thank you ! ” replied Steve, briefly. 

“ I want to ask a question,” continued Miley. 
“ I don’t pretend that I’m a friend of yours, or 
ever will be, — I don’t pretend that. But I’ve 
done you a favor, and I want one in return. 
What did you do with the Mauritius stamps you 
took the other night ? ” 

Steve looked Miley in the face, and answered, 
without any resentment : 

“ I didn’t take any stamps.” 

“ Sure ? ” asked Miley. 

“ Sure.” 

“ By Jiminy ! ” Miley said, “ who did ? ” 

“ Look here, Galligan ! ” Steve went on, regain- 
ing his superb manner and his West Point waist. 
“Look here! You’ve done me a favor, and I’ll 


the box. 


257 


overlook your insult. If I wanted to steal, I 
wouldn’t steal two stamps. What were they 
like?” 

“ Mauritius.” 

“ Yes, — why, yes ! ” said Steve, really grateful 
for the danger he had escaped. “ I did see them, 
and I can tell you where they are. One night, 
during the week I was captain in the dormitory, 
an envelope blew from under Jack Chumleigh’s 
pillow, before Mr. O’Conor came up. I put the 
envelope back, but threw the stamps into the tin 
box on Jack’s washstand. They must be there 
yet. If you find the stamps,” he added, “ we’ll 
consider ourselves quits. I don’t want to be a 
friend of yours, Galligan; and you’re the last 
man to whom I want to owe a favor.” 

“If I find the stamps,” said Miley, “you can 
be as nasty as you like. But you must expect me 
to get back at you every time.” 

Steve made the military salute and marched 
away with his box under one arm. 

“ If he only knew, how he would despise me ! ” 
said Miley to himself. “ If my Aunt Mary knew 
that I had opened another boy’s letter! Oh, 
dear, how I do despise myself ! A fellow can 
take a bath when he falls into the mud, but when 
your mind does a dishonorable thing you can’t 
get clean so easily. I must see Father Mirard 
to-morrow.” 

Nevertheless, before he went to bed, Miley be- 


258 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


gan to regret that he had not discovered Steve’s 
secret in some legitimate way. He remembered 
his haughty air, even when Miley had gone out 
of his way to oblige him ; and, tucked under the 
blanket, he was devising schemes for the humil- 
iation of Osborne. The boys were marched in 
ranks into the dormitory under the charge of the 
captain of the night. Silence was the rule ; and, 
after the captain had made his rounds, the tutor 
came in, and there was no chance for Miley to 
speak to Jack. 

The necessity of praying that the stamps might 
still be in the box drove all thought of vengeance 
out of Miley’s head. He was one of those young 
Christians who are always very good when they 
want anything; so, while he prayed earnestly 
that the stamps might be in the tin box, he tried 
hard to make God and himself believe that he 
would forgive the arrogant offender. 

The next morning was a busy one. Steve Os- 
borne was sullen and moody. He was devoured 
with anxiety about his box : he had not had a 
chance to open it yet. He had hidden it in the 
straw in the stable, and he intended to remove it 
to his recess in the barrack on the first oppor- 
tunity. 

Miley, too, was devoured with anxiety about 
the stamps. At the first recess he spoke to Jack. 

“ When you can get to the dormitory, look 
into the tin box on your washstand.” 


THE BOX. 


259 


“ What tin box ? ” asked Jack. 

“ Why, the one on your washstand, of course, 
— stupid ! ” Miley answered. 

“ Oh ! ” said J ack, who was thinking of his al- 
gebra. “ Oh, yes. What did you say ? Tin 
box? I gave it to Faky yesterday for his bait. 
He wants to go fishing next Thursday.” 

Miley gripped Jack’s arm hard. 

“ Where is Faky ? ” 

“ Over in the juniors’.” 

“ Can you see him ? ” 

“No. Professor Grigg says there is too much 
running from campus to campus. He has stopped 
it, except at the afterdinner recess, by special 
permission.” 

“ The stamps were in that box, Jack. Uncle 
Mike is saved, if we can find it.” 

“We’ll have to wait for the noon recess. 

0 Miley ! if Faky has not opened the box, the 
stamps must be in it. If I ever wanted anything, 

1 want those stamps. I say, Miley, we’ll have to 
pray.” 

“ It’s no use,” replied Miley, sadly. “ I prayed 
last night, and I believe my prayers are likely to 
hoodoo the whole thing. In the first place, I feel 
that I ought not to ask God for anything until I 
can punch Steve Osborne’s head or forgive him. 
In the second place, I did a mean thing last night, 
— so mean a thing that I can’t mention it to any- 
body, though I would like to tell.” 


260 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ Miley,” said Jack, surprised, “ you’d better go 
to confession. There is something wrong with 
you. I’m sure I’d like to be even with Steve Os- 
borne. I thought last night,” Jack continued, in 
a low and solemn voice, “ that I’d like to be even 
with Steve and not be a Catholic just for an hour 
or so. If I could be a pagan just for a little while 
and then repent, it would suit me. But, as you’re 
a Catholic, you’ve got to forgive your enemies ; 
and,” he added, with a groan, “ I can forgive 
everybody but Steve Osborne.” 

“ I feel the same, too,” said Miley. “ I’m glad 
you are as bad as I am. I didn’t think anybody 
could be as bad as I am. It is a great pleasure 
to find that you’re quite as bad, — though you 
could never, never be so mean.” 

“ I don’t think that I’m much worse than most 
people,” said Jack, somewhat offended. 

“ / am,” replied Miley. “I’m that mean that 
if a turtle got to first base before me, I couldn’t 
feel meaner. And the worst of it is that I have 
got a chance of being still meaner, and I want to 
be mean. The religious life,” said Miley, with a 
groan, “ is dreadfully hard.” 

“We’d better go to confession, I think,” an- 
swered Jack. “ In the meantime let’s find out 
what Faky Dillon has done with the box.” 


THE RIVER BANK. 


261 


XXVI. 

THE RIVER BANK. 

When Faky discovered what that tin box con- 
tained, he was in great distress. Faky, like most 
poets, was absent-minded. Thanksgiving drew 
nearer every day, and he felt the necessity of 
completing the Latin ode. He had serious 
thoughts on the subject. That ode, if sent in 
time, would, he knew, make a vast difference in 
the contents of the box from home. 

“ 0 rosa rosarum ! ” he went on, until he had 
used up nearly all the nouns of the first declen- 
sion. Miley had suggested “ 0 regina servorum ! ” 
But Faky had his doubts ; for, although Susan 
often laughed scornfully at the pretensions of 
American domestics, she always described herself 
as a “help.” Consequently Faky’s delicate taste 
recoiled before “servorum” ; besides, he had 
certain grammatical doubts. 

It was the thought of this ode that caused 
him to lose the tin box. He had determined to 
devote it to worms, — all he could remember now 
was that he had left it somewhere. 

“What’s the use of genius? ’’Baby Maguire 
said, when he heard this confession. “ I’d rather 
have common-sense.” 


262 


.JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“Oh, you would, would you ?” Faky retorted, 
sarcastically. “ Why don’t you try for some of 
it, then ? Here I am, working and slaving for 
you fellows. Do you think it is for myself I’m 
trying to make poetry in a language that is dead 
and ought to be buried ? Hot much ! It’s for 
all of you. /know Susan. If a black cat jumps 
on the fence on any day before Thanksgiving, 
she’ll think it’s bad luck to send the box. Be- 
sides, if she thinks that cook is going to send a 
box, she will not send any ; because as she’s out 
with the cook, she’ll do nothing the cook does. 
How, Jack’s sure of a box, anyhow, because the 
cook wrote him a letter the other day. She 
thinks he is just right ; but we’re not sure of any- 
thing. And if I don’t get an ode of some sort 
to her before Thanksgiving, there may be no box 
but Jack’s, — that’s all.” 

“I’d rather do without a box than ‘ work ’ peo- 
ple in that way,” said Miley. 

“ Oh, you would, would you ? ” replied Faky. 
“You’re too high-toned for this crowd. I sup- 
pose you’d consider it mean to open one of those 
club boxes if you had a chance. You’re too high- 
toned ! ” 

Miley ’s face flushed. Faky’s careless words 
brought the memory of his shame back to him ; 
he made no reply, and Thomas Jefferson and 
Baby Maguire looked at him in amazement. 

“ I’m not 4 working ’ anybody,” Faky Dillon 


THE RIVER BANK. 


263 


went on, in an aggrieved tone. “ I’m only pay- 
ing a tribute to Susan in the Latin language, be- 
cause she likes it ; and if it makes the box bigger, 
so much the better.” 

44 I am not saying anything, am I ? ” demanded 
Miley. 

“ But all this talk will not bring back the tin 
box,” observed Thomas Jefferson. “There are 
a lot of punishments to-day. Everything seems 
to go wrong. The idea of sending Steve Os- 
borne into our 4 quiz ’ ! The tutors know we dis- 
like him.” 

44 He is clever,” said Faky. 44 There is no de- 
nying that.” 

44 He was in our 4 quiz,’ too,” said Miley, his 
brow contracting. 44 1 think these 4 quizes ’ are 
foolish. You have to work hard for the weekly 
test, and here they go and add every two weeks 
a 4 quiz ’ at which some senior is the boss. It is 
bad enough for you juniors, but it is awful for 
the lower-class seniors.” 

44 Hid Steve rattle you ? ” asked Baby Maguire. 
44 Was it decimals ? ” 

44 Decimals ! ” echoed Miley, in contempt. 44 It 
was algebra. And he was nasty ! ” 

In fact, Steve Osborne had repented of his 
amiability to Miley. There are boys who never 
seem to forgive a kindness. So crooked have 
their natures become that they see in every 
courtesy an attempt to gain something from 


264 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


them in return. They are greatly to be pitied. 
And Steve Osborne was one of these. He made 
up his mind that Miley must have had some ob- 
ject in helping him in the matter of the box ; 
and in conducting the hour’s “quiz” — a duty 
which fell upon one of the senior class every two 
weeks — he had done his utmost to put Miley ’s 
ignorance of algebra in as strong a light as pos- 
sible. Steve had determined to show him that 
he need expect no favors. 

As Thomas Jefferson had remarked, no amount 
of talk would bring back the tin box; so Miley, 
with a sigh, proceeded on his errand, which was 
to carry a message from a tutor in the seniors’ 
campus to one in the juniors’. 

On returning to the seniors’, he saw that a 
group had gathered around Steve Osborne ; and 
Bob Bently called to Miley, who found that a 
dozen boys were arranging for a game of foot- 
ball between the two departments. 

“It’s too bad,” Steve said, hiding a cigarette 
in his sleeve as a tutor passed, “ that Professor 
Grigg won’t allow visiting teams to come here. 
He is behind the times.” 

“ We’ve got to have a game, anyhow,” said the 
Cuban, who hated football, and, to avoid playing, 
had got himself made manager of the team. 
“ Miley Galligan here can play. Make him full- 
back. I’ve seen him practice in the juniors’.” 

Steve looked into Miley’s face with a cool 


THE RIVER BANK. 


205 


stare. Now that the tutor had passed, he puffed 
at his cigarette. 

“ Has any fellow an Egyptian ? ” he asked, 
looking around in the aristocratic manner so 
much admired by his friends. “ I can’t stand 
these American cigarettes. My Aunt Fanny 
always kept me supplied with Egyptians, — a 
dollar a package. But you can’t get anything 
like that out here. How do, Galligan?” he 
added. “Why don’t you get some buttermilk 
and wash the freckles off your face ? They look 
bigger every time I see you. I guess your sys- 
tem must be full of iron ; there must be enough 
in it to make an iron-clad.” 

The group, even Bob Bently, roared at this 
exquisite joke. Milev’s freckles were hidden in 
the rush of crimson blood to his face. The boys 
laughed again. Steve’s wit was so fine, and his 
rich aunt might appear in splendor at any mo- 
ment. How Miley despised them all, but espe- 
cially Bob ! He was about to retort with crush- 
ing sarcasm when he recalled the fact that he 
could not call them “ mean,” as he intended to ; 
in his heart he felt that he was meaner than any- 
body there. 

“You’d not be likely to meet Miley at one of 
your aunt’s parties, would you ? ” laughed one 
of the club, pointing to a big hole in Miley ’s 
“ sweater.” 

“Steve Osborne’s aunt—” Miley began, with 


206 


JACK CIIUMLEIGII. 


a sneer. Then he stopped. To say what he was 
about to say would make him appear in his own 
eyes the vilest of boys. 

“ What about Steve Osborne’s aunt ? ” de- 
manded Osborne. “ What have you got to say 
about Steve Osborne’s aunt, I’d like to know ? ” 

“ Steve Osborne’s aunt,” Miley continued, 
changing his words, “ may be the richest woman 
in Boston, but she doesn’t run this school. The 
question is, who is to be full-back on the seniors’ 
team ? ” 

“ You’re not, — that’s certain,” replied Osborne. 
“My aunt may not run the school, but you’ll 
find out that / run a good part of it, old boy.” 

“ At the meeting the other day I was put on 
the seniors’ team,” said Miley ; “ and you can’t 
put me off it.” 

“Can’t I? We’ll see. Boys,” Osborne went 
on, “ you’re all on the executive committee. 
Shall we turn Miley Galligan down or not ? All 
in favor of dropping him say 4 Aye ! ’ ” 

Everybody except Bently said, “ Aye ! ” There 
was an appealing and disappointed look in Miley ’s 
eye that touched Bob’s heart. It was a dream 
of Miley’s — a cherished dream — to play full-back 
on this team. 

“ I say, Osborne,” Bob ventured, “ that’s rather 
hard.” 

“ Discipline is discipline, and we cannot afford 
to have a tad like this — the cousin of Jack Chum- 


THE RIVER BANK. 


267 


leigh’s mother’s servant-girl, I’ve heard, — come 
lording it over us,” Osborne said, puffing again 
at his cigarette. 

Miley closed his lips hard ; he began to say an 
“Our Father” and “Hail Mary” rapidly. He 
felt that the devil was at his elbow ; that he must 
answer Steve back or choke with anger. 

But Bob Bently spoke again, — he was indig- 
nant. 

“ Miley Galligan’s cousin may be a servant — I 
don’t say she isn’t, — but I want to tell you that 
she is a friend of mine, and a good friend too. I 
don’t mind a joke, Steve ; but that sort of talk is 
what I call hitting below the belt. Miley Galli- 
gan ought to be proud to be the cousin of 
any lady, whether she is a servant or not. And 
it’s a mean thing for any boy brought up among 
nice people, as you’ve been, Osborne, to say a 
thing like that.” 

Instead of answering Bob, Osborne gave an 
excellent imitation of his tone of voice ; for Bob, 
when excited, spoke somewhat through his nose. 

Bob turned away. 

“ Never mind ! ” Steve called out to his admir- 
ers. “He’s a ‘softy,’ — I can bring him back 
when I want him.” 

“ Why didn’t you speak up ? ” asked Bob, in- 
dignantly. “You’re glib enough usually with 
your tongue.” 

“I couldn’t, — I couldn’t,” answered Miley; 


268 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“ that is, I could if I wanted — to. If you — ” but 
Miley checked himself; in another minute he 
would have suggested too much. 

The mail had come in ; the boys commissioned 
for that purpose distributed it. Steve Osborne 
read his short note — it was from his aunt, — and 
tore it into small pieces. Bob Bently walked to 
the shade of the apple orchard with Miley, and 
read his paper. 

“ Failure of Pacific Bank ! ” he cried, after he 
had scanned the column of baseball news, and 
looked for the beginnings of football. “ That’s 
father’s bank,” he said ; “ and Mr. Chumleigh is 
a big stockholder. I’m afraid they are pretty 
blue at home, if this is true.” 

Miley could only say that he hoped it was not 
true. The duties of the day began, but Miley 
learned nothing. He was wild with anger against 
Steve Osborne; he could think of nothing but 
him, — of nothing. At times he felt that he 
would shame him before the whole school, 
and take the consequences. Even good Father 
Mirard would have to admit that the tempta- 
tion was very great. He went into a delightful 
dream over his map-drawing, in which he saw 
himself the centre of a group which listened with 
howls of derision to his version of Steve Osborne’s 
aunt’s letter ; while Steve slunk away, humiliated, 
despised, — a liar and boaster found out. Oh, 
how Miley revelled in the thought ! But sud- 


THE RIVER BANK. 


269 


denly he awoke, and said the “ Our Father ” and 
“ Hail Mary ” again. 

The note received by Steve Osborne had run 
thus : 

My dear Steve : — I forgot to seal a most 
important letter which I put into your box. 
Look after it when you open the box ; I am very 
nervous. 

Aunt Fanny. 

Miley’s class record was not good that day ; 
he fought with temptation all day long. Steve’s 
insolent words seemed to be written in acid on 
his heart. 

In the meantime, spurred on by his aunt’s 
note, Osborne had contrived to get his box into 
his closet in the barrack. He sighed with relief 
when he found that the letter was safe. If 
Miley had seen his pale face as he read that 
letter, he would have forgiven him. All the 
bravado, the boastfulness was gone ; and, as he 
read his aunt’s words, Steve Osborne looked very 
wretched. He took up the rude picture of 
Shakspere, and kissed it, and kissed it again. 

“ O father ! ” he groaned, — ■“ O father ! why 
did you do it ? ” 

He was alone in the barrack, and the sobs that 
shook him and made the calico curtain of his 
closet tremble could not be heard. He picked 
up the letter again. His aunt had said that it 


270 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


was not sealed : he looked at it closely. The 
flap had been glued, and pressed down by a very 
muddy hand, certainly not his aunt’s. He 
looked into the box. What was that ? Surely 
Miley Galligan’s big claspknife, — the name 
burned into the bone handle ! Steve Osborne 
shivered ; cold perspiration came out on his fore- 
head. Did Miley know ? — did Miley, his enemy, 
know ? He examined the lid of the box. It was 
plain, from the appearance of the box, that it 
had been opened. Steve could not stand up : he 
sat on his stool, and chewed the letter into small 
pieces, which he swallowed. 

He must see Miley Galligan — he must know the 
truth. He was feverish; he could not eat at 
supper ; he moved about as if he were a machine. 

Miley went to the river bank during the even- 
ing “ recreation ” to dig for worms ; filled, too, 
with some hope that he might find the tin box ; 
for Faky had confessed that he thought he had 
left it somewhere near the river. 

Steve caught sight of Miley, and went to him, 
grateful that the meeting would take place in 
the shadow of the trees. 

Miley stopped digging, and looked up sullenly. 

“Well,” he said, “what do you want of me? 
You’re twice my size, but I’d like nothing better 
than to have a fair fight with you.” 

“ Did you drop that into a box ? ” Steve asked, 
tossing the claspknife to Miley. 


THE RIVER BANK. 


271 


Miley caught it, — lie turned red. 

“I dropped it somewhere.” 

“ Do you remember that envelope ? ” 

Miley looked at the envelope, with the mark 
of his muddy thumb on it. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ I do.” 

“ And you read — ” began Steve, in a half- 
choked voice. 

“ Yes,” said Miley, hanging his head. “ And 
I am sorry for it from my heart.” 

Osborne leaned against a knotted apple-tree, 
faint and weak. 

“Well,” he muttered, “you will tell, of 
course.” 

“No,” said Miley, “I will not. You are a 
bully and a coward, and ” — he caught sight of 
Steve’s white face, and stopped. “You can be 
as nasty as you like ; you can say what you like, 
but I’ll play fair. What I’ve read is as dead as a 
door-nail.” 

Steve kicked hard at an object that lay in the 
dried grass, — he did not know what he was do- 
ing. He kicked again, and dislodged the object. 

“ Galligan,” he said, in a low voice, “ I believe 
you. You’re the first boy that ever lived that 
wouldn’t have blurted out the truth to-day when 
I said what I did. It makes me shiver to think 
of it. Let us be friends.” 

Osborne held out his hands. 

Miley turned his back to him. 


272 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


“No: schoolmates,— that’s all.” 

“If I can do anything for you, Galligan — ” 
Steve advance toward Miley. 

“ Don’t lie, — that’s all,” Miley retorted. 

“ And don’t you open other people’s letters ! ” 
responded Osborne. 

Miley made no answer. He picked up the 
object which Steve had kicked. It was the tin 
box. He opened it with trembling hands, — the 
stamps were in it, safe ! 


THE END. 


273 


XXVII. 

THE END. 

Uncle Mike was about to take his departure 
from Colonnade House. Nearly all the juniors 
had learned to love him very much. The smaller 
ones hung about him in season and out of season. 
There was a question, however, as to whether 
his influence was quite in a line of which Pro- 
fessor Grigg would have approved. 

“Uncle Mike,” observed Teddy Martin, a 
chubby lad, “knows so much without having 
studied, that I think I’ll just try to grow up like 
him. Oh, Ireland’s the place for fun ! ” he went 
on. “There is no spot in the world like it. 
What with leprechauns and banshees, you are 
never lonesome in Ireland.” 

“ And Orangemen,” said Baby Maguire. “ Un- 
cle Mike knows more about Orangemen than any 
living creature. Why, if he wasn’t a Christian, 
he’d have killed hundreds of them. But he’s too 
good a Christian for that.” 

“ He says there are people in the moon,” con- 
tinued Teddy. “He’s a dandy for knowing 
things, — a regular dandy. If a man can get 
such an education without books, I don’t see the 
use of all this geography and stuff,” 


274 


JACK CHUM LEIGH. 


Guy listened to all this with a pleased face. 
It was delightful to hear Uncle Mike praised. 
But his heart was heavy. The time was at hand 
when Uncle Mike and his wife would be without 
a roof over their heads, and Guy lay awake for 
hours wondering how he could help them. He 
went to sleep, after long reflections on the sub- 
ject, leaving it all to St. Joseph, his unfailing 
friend in every distress. 

Uncle Mike’s departure had been postponed, at 
Guy’s request, so long that at last he had to tear 
himself away. Guy tried to keep back the tears, 
but could not. Uncle Mike was not only going 
away, but going to poverty, — going to begin life 
over again. 

In the meantime the recovered stamps had 
been sent by Jack, through Father Mirard, to 
the great stamp store in Hew York ; and, as the 
Mauritius — the most important Mauritius — was 
genuine, a check came on the second day, made 
payable to Father Mirard. And if any of my 
young readers will look into the stamp cata- 
logues, they will find the amount of its value re- 
corded ; and that was what Uncle Mike received 
from Jack just as he was going away. The en- 
velope containing it was thrust into his hands, 
and the amount was more than enough to pay 
off the mortgage. 

Guy did not hear of this until Uncle Mike’s 
wife told him a week later. He thanked God 


THE END. 


275 


and the dear St. Joseph. Now he could study 
with all his heart ; for he felt truly happy. 

Thanksgiving came, but with it no box. There 
was an ominous silence. No word had come 
from the cook or Susan, though Kebecca sent 
her respects through Mrs. Chumleigh. Faky’s 
ode was sent, and Mrs. Chumleigh said that she 
had seen Susan weeping over it. Baby Maguire 
received a box of bananas and guava jelly from 
his father’s agent in Cuba ; Miley’s aunts united 
in sending him a turkey, and mince-pies that 
melted in the mouth ; Faky Dillon and Bob 
Bently had boxes, — everybody, in fact, except 
Thomas Jefferson and Jack. And Faky cared 
nothing for his home box : it contained delicacies 
far inferior to those prepared by Susan. He 
wondered and wondered ; for Susan had always 
admired his poetry very much, and he fancied 
that Latin poetry would be doubly effective. 
But, for all that, no box came. 

The Pacific Bank failure interested both the 
Chumleigh and Bently families, but the boys at 
school soon forgot it. Steve Osborne had ceased 
to boast, and some of his friends became so bold 
as to ask him whether his Aunt Fanny had lost 
her money. lie made no answer. Only at times 
did he resume his swaggering air; and it was 
remarked that, though he was occasionally 
“ nasty ” to Miley, he went out of his way to do 
him little favors. Altogether, Professor Griggs’ 


276 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


school suddenly became very quiet. Steve sel- 
dom ordered club meetings, and the tutors said 
that they had never known so serene a session. 

One afternoon Steve met Miley on the river 
bank. Miley had just pulled up his fishing line, 
— it was a conge day. 

“ What made you do it ? ” asked Steve, suddenly, 
looking closely into Miley ’s face. “You could 
not have expected to get anything out of me.” 

“ What made me do it ! ” cried Miley, exasper- 
ated. “ The Old Boy, I guess, — the Old Boy ! 
And I felt so mean that I wouldn’t even say a 
prayer. I say, Steve Osborne, you can trample 
on me, if you like, — yes, trample on me. If you 
were a hundred times cheekier than you used to 
be, I wouldn’t answer back. I’m wilted. Fa- 
ther Mirard walked into me when I told him, 
but I am muddy all over with meanness yet.” 

“ I don’t mind your reading the letter,” con- 
tinued Osborne, impatiently ; “ any boy would 
have done that ” 

“No gentleman would have done it,” inter- 
rupted Miley, blushing. “Jack Chumleigli 
wouldn’t have done it.” 

“ No,” admitted Steve. 

“ Bob Bently would not have done it.” 

“ I don’t know about that” said Steve. 

“You think because Bob’s a friend of yours 
that he is mean,” returned Miley, hotly. “Well 
he is not. I can tell you that, Osborne.” 


THE END. 


277 


“Well, let it go! I want to know why you 
let me down so easily. It’s more than I can un- 
derstand.” 

“ If the fight had been fair,” said Miley, “ I’d 
have made you suffer. It wasn’t fair, so you had 
the advantage. You can chuck me into the 
river, if you want' to, Steve Osborne ; but de- 
pend upon it, I’d no more mention what I read 
than I’d let Teddy Martin do me.” 

“ Who brought you up?” asked Osborne. 

“ My mother.” 

“ She must be a mighty good woman.” 

“ She is” said Miley. 

“Well,” answered Steve, “you’re the first boy 
I’ve met that could do a thing like that. If you 
had been as bad to me as I was to you, and I’d 
found — no matter what — I’d have crushed you.” 

Miley shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I don’t suppose you have known many good 
people in your life,” he said. “ But I have.” 

“ I haven’t, with the exception of Aunt Fanny,” 
Steve replied. 

“ She is a good woman,” Miley went on, — “ a 
kind woman. But, if I were you, I’d go to work 
for her instead of letting her work for me.” 

“ You would, would you ? ” said Steve, frown- 
ing. “ Work ! Why, when father was with 
me I never even studied. Miley Galligan,” he 
whispered, putting his hand on Miley’s arm, 
“ I’m glad you’ve found me out, — I can talk to you 


278 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


about what has happened. Some days in this 
school I’ve felt that I must speak — or die. I 
wanted to ask somebody, ‘ Was there ever an} r 
other boy like me, with his father in prison ? ’ 
Of course I know there was. But I wouldn’t 
have any other father, — don’t you go and think 
that. I love him more every day, if he did forge 
that check, — no, I don’t believe he did it.” 

Miley blinked his eyes. 

“I know,” he said ; “ I know. Just as I felt 
toward my father, only my father was an angel. 
You needn’t talk any more.” 

He went to Osborne and gave him his hand ; 
he wanted to say something tender and consol- 
ing, but what he did say was : 

“Don’t you lie, Steve Osborne.” 

And Steve pressed his hand and said in a tone 
whose softness belied the words : 

“And don’t you go and open other people’s 
letters.” 

Steve turned away, a better boy at heart. 
And Miley, waiting until he was out of sight, sat 
at the foot of the apple-tree and blubbered as if 
his heart would break. 

The failure of the famous Pacific Bank made 
a great change in the lives of Jack Chumleigh 
and his friends. At Christmas Jack, Thomas 
Jefferson, and Bob Bently left Colonnade House. 
Their fathers could not afford to keep them at 
school, and so they went back to Philadelphia ; 


THE END. 279 

Guy, Faky Dillon, and Baby Maguire returning 
to Professor Grigg’s after the holidays. 

Jack found things apparently about the same 
at home. In January, Thomas Jefferson went to 
the Christian Brothers’ school, with Bob Bently. 
But Jack was put temporarily in his father’s 
office. 

Susan and the cook were on good terms again, 
but Rebecca had gone. They were very much 
subdued. 

Susan kissed her young friends on both cheeks 
as they entered the kitchen, with a delightful 
feeling of “ old timeness ” in their heads. 

“ ’Tis the beautifullest thing I ever read,” she 
said to Faky. “ A boy that goes to Latin school 
— he lives in Fourth Street — translated it for 
me. When I die it’ll be read at my wake.” 

Faky was gratified. He was too delicate to 
ask about the box. 

Susan continued : 

“ It was no time for turkey and cake when the 
family was in such affliction over the bank. And 
any kind of excitement do make the cook’s hand 
heavy with pastry. ‘ Susan,’ she says to me — 
for the sorrow made us friends again, — says she, 
‘ I can’t put any heart in the mince-pies, with the 
mistress looking like a ghost ; and it’s not the 
like of me that would run the risk of sending 
heavy pie-crust to be criticised by the like of 
her ? — meaning Mrs. Grigg. The night before 


280 


JACK CHUMLEIGH. 


the bank failed I heard the banshee say 4 Susan ’ 
three different times; and,” she lowered her 
voice, “the death-tick was in all the furniture.” 

A little of the old chill went through Faky’s 
blood; but he wished that Susan had sent the 
box, all the same. 

“ Is it looking for Rebecca you are ? ” Susan 
said. “We don’t mention her name. Mrs. 
Chumleigh wanted cook and me to get places, 
because she couldn’t pay our wages after Christ- 
mas. 4 I knew it would come,’ says I to cook ; 
4 for my left ear burned all night.’ But we just 
told her that we didn’t blame her, for misfor- 
tunes do be upsetting to the mind; but we’d 
stay without wages till things came right. As 
for Rebecca, she’s gone.” 

And so we leave our friends, living their lives 
in sunlight and shadow ; Jack and Bob and 
Thomas Jefferson none the less happy for being 
poor. 

44 Our hoards are little,” as Faky said, quoting 
another poet, 44 but our hearts are great.” These 
words occurred in his last letter to Jack. He put 
them in, he said, because he had no time to write 
anything better. 


THE EHD. 








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